


Lift Me Up (and i'll fall with you)

by ClownHouse



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Camerashipping, Experimental Style, Healing from trauma, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD, Second Person, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, bisexual waylon, gay miles, miles is soft, oh my god they were roommates, this is some flowery nonsense enjoy, whats the dang ship called again lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24503065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClownHouse/pseuds/ClownHouse
Summary: Maybe all you needed was somebody to sit with you in the dark.This is a story about healing.
Relationships: Waylon Park/Miles Upshur
Comments: 67
Kudos: 144





	1. Run on.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genesis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This originally started off as a oneshot poem and quickly grew into what it is today. 
> 
> I've always liked the idea that Miles Upshur and Waylon Park are the only people who can really understand one another, being the only two survivors of Mount Massive. This fic picks up a year on from the game's events, and follows The Boys on their mental and physical journeys towards healing. The title is a Springsteen lyric - his song 'Lift Me Up' is peak Soft Yearning and makes me want to love.
> 
> Maybe I'll make a playlist of songs that inspired this.......who knows. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy :^)
> 
> **
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: vague suicidal ideation

**Begin Act 1**

  
  
Miles Upshur is a dick and you hate him.

And yet, you can’t escape him. He’ll be there when you wake up, he’ll be wandering around the house until you fall asleep. You can’t stand it. You are tired of this - of the running, of him, of the loneliness you still feel even though he’s there, _always there_.

  
You and Upshur are going to die.  
  
Sort of.  
  
You are going to fake-die and, therefore, be written off the long list of Murkoff’s targets - all while the FBI back home fights tooth and nail to bring the corporation down. You are to stay low in Europe while your deaths in America are falsified so carefully that even Murkoff themselves will be paying their respects.

The plan is foolproof. You’ve done your part. Let the adults do the rest.  
  
But when you were told you would both be commencing under witness protection in Ravello, you didn’t think they’d meant you’d be living _together_.  
  
  
You never got a straight answer when you’d asked the agents _why?_ They just gave you a mess of different excuses in response: because you were too mentally ill to live alone. Because _Upshur_ was too mentally ill to live alone. Because it was simply easier to lump both protected witnesses into the same house. Because your limited knowledge of the Italian language was still immensely more than his. Because _fuck you_ , that’s why.

  
You doubt you are any safer being forced to cohabit with a snarky ex-journalist when you’ve been alone for a year and never run into any trouble - not counting, of course: the night terrors, the panic attacks, the lack of sleep, the terrible diet, the constant longing for death, the loneliness - _that damned loneliness_ …  
  
You believe being alone was still better than living with him will be.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Nobody was meant to survive what had happened over a year ago. Murkoff had made that intention _very_ clear. And, Agent Ford had told the two of you solemnly, they weren’t too happy with the fact that there had been not one, but _two_ whole survivors.  
  
You and Miles Upshur had made it out of the asylum. The only reason you hadn’t been cut down already was the fact that nobody _knew_.

You weren’t sure how to take this news. Not the fact you could be a target - you’d known that for ages; why else would you have crossed the border? Why else would you refuse to even watch your footage, let alone upload it? You’d spent your days looking over your shoulder. Terrified that you would see Blaire, Gluskin, the man in the black mist…  
  
You weren’t sure how to take the news that Upshur had been there too.

Your entire ordeal and the entire year that followed you’d believed that you had been completely alone. And to think, that the whole time you were being chased, hunted, beaten, tortured… Somebody else had been there. Somebody with more than a shred of sanity left, somebody hopeful to escape, somebody like you…  
You’d believed it would have made things just a little easier. Hope was the only weapon you’d had.  
  


Miles hadn’t seemed to be in the same boat.  
  
(“If i’d known you were there at the same time as me I would have come and kicked your fucking ass in, Park,” he’d told you, unblinking.)

The FBI didn’t care that you hated each other. They didn’t care that Upshur had been hunting you down for a whole year to drag you back into finishing what you’d started. They only cared that both of you had enough evidence to bring Murkoff to its knees, but neither of you had done a God-damn thing about it yet.

Upshur just hadn’t found the right time.  
You just hadn’t wanted your organs ripped out and fed to you.  
In other words, you both were afraid of the outcome.

  
Then came the solution: death.  
  


You’d both gotten what you needed to bring Murkoff down. All you had to do was hit the upload button. Hit the upload button and run, because the instant you go viral you will bear the weight of a flashing neon bullseye painted directly to your back.

You couldn’t think of anything worse than people seeing what had happened to you.

  
**  
  


You haven’t said a word to each other since before you arrived in your provided housing. You didn’t talk on the plane, on the drive here. You both act like the other isn’t there. You hope it stays that way.  
  
How much longer do you have to run?

* * *

If only Upshur had never found you, sitting alone - always alone - in that tiny bar only a few blocks from your motel.

You used to haunt it on the daily with the faint hope that either Lisa would join you or that God would turn up and take you out.  
  
Neither of these ever happened, though, as Lisa and God had long since abandoned you.

That didn’t stop your heart from pounding when you felt a hand on your shoulder.  
  
You had turned in your seat quickly, so eagerly, only to come face to face with someone who definitely wasn’t Lisa. Nor was he the good Lord.  
  
“Are you Waylon Park?” The man standing before you had asked right away. He seemed very out of breath and maybe a little younger than you, with thick dark hair and deep set brown eyes. Handsome, in a kind of gaunt way.  
  
He had struck you instantly as familiar, and this was a very bad sign. You didn’t know anybody in Canada. You didn’t want to know anybody. That was how you’d stayed hidden.  
  
You had wondered if this man was part of Murkoff. But judging by the fact you weren’t dead by now, you doubted it.  
  
So you hissed, “J-Jesus, keep your voice down!” Then, quieter, almost inaudible over the buzzing of the lights above, “Do I know you?”  
  
He had immediately hauled you off your stool by the lapels of your jacket, shouting, “Give me my jeep back, asshole!”  
  


This, apparently, was a yes.  
  


His name was Miles Upshur, as you soon found out. A thirty year old ex-journalist - freelance, of course - who specialised in _real journalism_ and digging up dirt on massive corporations. Corporations like Murkoff. The man knew a lot about the breach of human rights and a lot about Mount Massive, maybe more than you. A triple threat of dark hair, dark eyes, dark past.  
Something about him set your teeth on edge - and it wasn’t just the fact that he’d been stupid enough to try fight you in public.

  
Once the two of you had been dragged off one another, you were escorted to FBI headquarters for a stern talking to. He’d turned to you in the car and told you that some strange circumstances had led him to even being inside the asylum in the first place.  
  
“That’s why I’m here now, Park. You got what you fuckin’ wanted out of me, now return the favour. Let’s burn this shit to the ground.”  
  
“W-wh-whhat the h-h….hell are you talking about?” you’d hissed at him.  
  
You recall your hands trembling. Heart pounding. Your stutter playing up more than it had in a year. You knew Miles Upshur, why did you know Miles Upshur…?  
  
“I think you get what I’m talking about,” he’d said with a curled lip. “Forgotten me so soon, have you? Never forgotten you, Waylon Park. Thirty-one years old, married with two kids, ex-software engineer for Murkoff Corporation. Whistleblower.”

  
And then you had recognised him. Recognised his name, his face, his job. Your mouth had fallen open.  
  
“O-oh my God,” you’d said. “It’s _you_. You came. You a-actually came.”  
  
He’d held both of his hands up, showing you the missing fingers, the exposed bone, and the world had felt like it was crumbling around you.  
  
“I’m sss-so sorry,” you’d said, voice breaking. “Upshur, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”  
  
He made it quite clear you weren’t forgiven. Not for being the reason he’d ended up like this, not for keeping your footage to yourself, and definitely not for losing his jeep.  
  
Until you helped him bring down Murkoff, that is. You owed him now.

  


* * *

  
You are familiar with the idea that the universe provides warning signs before a disaster. You are familiar with animals fleeing in vast numbers to higher ground, with an ocean retreating from the shore, with worms surging to the earth’s surface. Indications that something was coming.  
  
Had you missed something that night when you met Upshur? A premonition in the hum of the lights, in his grey-tinged skin, in those eyes that were just a bit too dark?  
  
There’s something off about him that makes you think you did.

  
**

  
Watching him unpack all of his things in the main room of your provided house, you let out a breath. This is just how it’s going to be for the next…whatever amount of time. Murkoff will think you’re dead. Everyone will think you’re dead. And Ravello, Italy, is where you need to stay until it’s safe to come back to life.  
  
The area is lovely. The people seem friendly. The house is a two-bedroom terrace only a small distance from the Tyrrhenian Sea. It’s beautiful, genuinely. A wonderful place to be when you’re dead.

You’re afraid. Still so fucking afraid.

You take yourself into the bathroom and sit down in the empty bathtub, fully clothed, head in your hands, waiting for God to smite you down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'You can run on for a long time,  
> But sooner or later God'll cut you down.'
> 
> \- Johnny Cash, God's Gonna Cut You Down
> 
> am i gonna end every chapter w/ a song that relates to the emotions and events taking place in that chapter? yes. what are u goign to do about it


	2. get out of the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unpack the suitcase. Leave the trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ever enjoy life just to flex on waylon  
> 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: References to canon-typical trauma, references to death, anxiety & depression

One thing (amongst many others) that you can’t stand about Upshur is how well adjusted he is in comparison to you.  
  
The FBI found you a wonderful replacement for your therapist back in America. Signora Dotti is a tiny old woman whose English is a million times better than your Italian, and you appreciate her and her dry sense of humour about how fucked up you are. You and her connect almost immediately.  
Most of all you appreciate her for letting you add sleeping pills to your already impressive collection of post-asylum medications.  
  
You never see Upshur taking anything resembling a pill.  
You could ask him, “Hey Upshur, how come you aren’t heavily medicated like me? What _is_ your secret?” but you don’t. That would involve talking to him on purpose.  
He wouldn’t give you a straight answer either; he’s made it quite clear that he’s still pissed off about the whole jeep thing.  
  
You haven’t _seen_ his asylum footage yourself, but if what the internet says is anything to go by then Upshur went through hell just like you. The only difference is that he managed to come out of it with everything in perfect working order. He’s told you that he doesn’t go to therapy. Just weekly check-ins with FBI officials that he refers to as ‘his physicals’.  
  
You don’t trust him. You don’t trust his shitty attitude, you don’t trust his lack of therapy, you don’t trust his shifty dark eyes.  
What sort of a man could he be to have come out of Mount Massive with everything so intact?  
  
  
When you bring this up to Dotti, she usually shrugs and says, “If everybody experienced trauma the same way, I would not have a job.”  
  
  
You doubt he experiences trauma full stop.  


* * *

  
The days blur together. You spend most of your waking hours thinking about home and trying to avoid your mind wandering that step too far. That step makes all the difference, separating deep melancholy from a full-blown panic.  
Upshur is unhelpful. Several times you have worried yourself into taking cover in the bathroom from nothing at all, and every time he only watches you go with bored curiosity. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t care.  
  
Thinking about Lisa hurts. Thinking about your sons hurts. 

You and Lisa had tried to live like nothing had ever happened, you really had. You’d tried from the moment you returned home from Mount Massive, from the moment you’d ventured into the equally terrifying world of PTSD. You developed a stutter, your leg never quite recovered, and, worst of all, your mind was wrecked. Gentle touches burned your skin and the idea of being intimate with somebody was…  
  
It still feels unreachable. You shudder where you sit - where you always sit - in the arm chair in front of the TV.In the few days you’ve been here you appear to have claimed it as Your Spot.  
  
(Upshur’s spot is the couch. He likes to sprawl across the whole thing and take up as much room as humanly possible. He’s a dick.)  
  
You weren’t the man Lisa had married and maybe you never would be again. The decision to split had been mutual. It was for the best, for your sons, for you. Mutual, painful, relieving, awful, wonderful.  
  
The last thing she’d ever said to you was that she didn’t know you anymore.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Night time suffocates you, still.  
  
Sometimes you’re alright. All the other times you are not. You see bodies hanging from your ceiling, imagine the whine of a buzzsaw, feel cold hands touching your thighs and a soft voice telling you to relax. Something is chasing you, a shrieking humanoid figure shrouded in black smoke. All as vivid as the night it happened.  
  
You consider calling Signora Dotti, but you know you wont. As wonderful as she is at letting you talk and at listening, you know she wouldn’t get it.  
  
God you wish somebody would just _get it.  
  
  
_ When the morning finally comes you rub your hand across your face and groan. Your head pounds, the way it always does after you’ve panicked enough to exhaust yourself. You turn to your bedside table to find an aspirin and notice a glass of water waiting for you. You don’t remember putting it there. You drain it in one hit.  
  
  
Upshur stays well out of your way that day. 

* * *

“Your stutter is improving a lot already, Waylon. Well done! But what about the sleeping?” Dotti smiles pleasantly. “Have you been able to get some rest?”  
You nod-shrug. “K-kind of. I’m still dreaming a lot.”  
“What do you dream about?”  
“G-Gluskin, mostly. Sometimes I dream about Lisa and I running towards each other but then she turns into him and I can’t stop myself from still running to meet her…er, him? I don’t know. I always freak myself awake right before he gets me.” You shake your head. You sound ridiculous. “I _know_ he’s gone. I know they’re all gone. It just doesn’t seem true at night.” 

  
She scribbles something down.  
  
“I dream about the ghost too, sometimes,” you add. “The figure that k-… that killed Blaire and followed me out of the asylum. I dream he catches up to me.”  
Dotti frowns.  
“This _ghost_ ,” she says. “You definitely believe he was coming after you to kill you?”  
You nod. After a moment you admit, “I don’t really know what that thing was, but there was something… _emitting_ from it; a feeling. I know it wanted to get me.”  
  
Signora Dotti peers at you over her glasses, her eyes narrowed. You are unable to read her expression.  
  
“Do you ever talk to Upshur about your dreams?” She asks. “I imagine they must make you feel very afraid, and perhaps it will be a comfort to talk with him.” 

You wish you had the energy to clutch your pearls and declare, “Even the _notion_!” You feel like that would make her laugh.  
  
Instead you say, “No, never.”  
“Why is that, do you think?”  
“I feel like it would piss him off, or something. I don’t think he likes me very much.”  
“Hm,” says Dotti, “cannot imagine _you_ being pissed off if _he_ were to come to you.”  
“That would never happen,” you reply. “Upshur is f-fine.”  
  
You’ve been seeing Dotti twice a week for several weeks now and you’ve started to pick up on her various facial tells that let you know she completely disagrees with something you are saying. And right now, her brows are indeed twitching inwards.  
  
“ _Sí,_ the only other man to make it out of Mount Massive alive is ‘fine’.” Dotti sniffs. “Have you ever asked him how he’s doing?”  
“..No.”  
She sighs.  
  
“Waylon Park,” she says, “it’s as if you enjoy being alone.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s maybe a month into your Ravello stay when you finally get an update from your agents.They text you on the provided burner phone and recommend that you google your names whenever you’re ready to know how their plan back home is going.  
  
You keep forgetting you’re supposed to be dead.  
  
Upshur must have gotten the same text at the same time because you hear him yell, “Oh shit!” from his room. He comes barrelling out.  
  
  
“Hey,” he says, first word he’s said directly to you all day. “Did you get—?”  
“The text?” You interrupt. You press your lips together. “Yeah. I got it.”  
Upshur flits about the room like a moth. “Shit, Park. This is it. We’re about to read our own eulogies.” He huffs out a breath. “I’ve actually always wanted to be present for my own funeral. Have you?”  
  
  
You don’t answer him. You’ve opened your laptop and are currently staring at the search engine, unable to type a single word.  
 _You’re not dead. You’re safe. This is how it’s meant to be.  
  
  
_ Upshur materialises next to you and yanks the laptop away, clacking at the keys while you yelp in protest. He hits enter. You keep your eyes fixed on him. Watching his expression change to one of genuine shock.  
  
“Jesus,” he says. “They’ve done it. I think they might have finally done it.”  
  
He perches himself on the arm of your chair and shifts so you can also see the screen.  
  
“There’s a video,” you point out. “Sh-should…Should we watch that?”  
  
Upshur clicks on it without answering.  
  
The video starts and you hold your breath.  
  
It’s a news report that must have come out earlier that day. The woman in front of the camera guides you through a brief recap, referring to you and Upshur as “the survivors” more often than not. She references the asylum footage you two uploaded and confirms that everyone ( _everyone_ ) knows that the videos have not been staged in any way.  
  
“And now, a mere three weeks after uploading their content, both Waylon Park and Miles Upshur have been found dead, their bodies disposed of in a nearby forest. Police in the area suspect foul-play…”  
  
The video shows you yellow tape, blurred out stains on the ground, two bodies being covered in black cadaver pouches and wheeled away.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Miles says. He shudders.  
“Y-y-yeah,” you agree.  
  
The video continues matter-of-factly. A few cops are interviewed, a couple of witnesses. People saying that you and Upshur are martyrs, that your deaths will be the final nail in the Murkoff coffin. You wonder how many of them are actors.  
  
You would have verbalised this thought but your heart suddenly falls through your chest as Lisa’s face appears on the screen. Her eyes are puffy but her voice is steady as she recounts where she was when she’d heard the news, what she knew about your involvement with Murkoff, everything.  
  
“Waylon is always going to be a huge part of my life,” she says, staring directly into the camera. “Nothing could ever change that. Murkoff… Every single part of it, every single _person_ involved will pay. Murkoff destroys lives. I don’t _care_ what it takes; burn it. Burn the whole thing to the ground.”  
  
You exhale, feel yourself trembling. There’d been a man standing close behind her the entire time she was speaking. Rubbing her shoulder, pulling her closer to him when she was done. A sign of her moving on, her healing. There's a weight on your shoulders and it keeps getting heavier.  
  
  
The reporter from the beginning is back. “Officials were unable to find any close friends or family to provide a comment on Miles Upshur.”  
  
  
“Wow,” Upshur mutters next to you. “Way to rub it in.”  
  
  
You get up off the couch, your face in your hands, pacing up and down the living room, unable to listen to another word. Upshur remains where he is, perched on the arm of the armchair. You could swear he looks upset. Your brain is working so hard you hear buzzing, like an electrical fault in the lights above.  
  
Your laptop pings.  
  
“You got an email,” Upshur grunts. There’s a muffled buzz and he pulls his phone out of his pocket, adding, “Me too.”  
  
You sweep your computer from his lap, sit back down, and click on the notification. The email opens up. You don’t recognise the sender. There is no subject line and no body text aside from tiny writing down the bottom that states, ‘ _Please see images below. These were the models used._ ’  
  
There are over twenty attached images.  
  
“The fuck? I got the exact same thing. You think it’s spam?” Upshur asks.  
“No,” you reply. “I think it’s from headquarters. Although, maybe I can run some tests on the attached files before we open—”  
  
Upshur reaches over you and clicks to open one of the images on your laptop. You go to swat his hand away but are too slow.  
  
The file opens to fill the whole laptop screen with the image of your own face. Your hair wilder than normal, your eyes glassy, a thin trickle of blood trailing from your parted lips. Your skin has an off grey tinge to it.  
  
  
It takes you a moment to register that you are looking at your own dead body.  
  
  
“Holy fuck,” Miles breathes behind you. “Jesus Christ, it looks so _real_.”  
  
He clicks through the other photos. There are more of your body, a few random closeups of notable marks included, and then you reach the pictures of Upshur. They’ve made his face look a lot more peaceful than yours. His eyes are closed. His skin is—  
You glance at Upshur.  
—more or less the same as it is in real life. 

The two of you sit in silence, Upshur’s arm shoving yours out of the way as he goes through every single photo sent to you. Close-ups of birthmarks and scars, a picture of Miles’ hands, a particularly disturbing shot of the two fake bodies lying side by side in a ditch. The buzzing in your head grows louder and louder. Your heart rattling in your ribcage. The hair on the back of your neck prickling.  
  
“This is fucking _weird_ ,” Upshur comments eventually. “Park, do you agree that this is fucking weird?”  
  
You get off the couch and go to your room, shutting the door behind you. The buzzing quiets down. You push your face into the pillow and sob.  
  
  
**  
  
  
That night you dream of being lowered slowly into the ground while everyone from your old life watches in silence. At the bottom of your grave you roll over to see another body is being buried with you.  
Its eyes open. They are black ink. You wake up.

  
  


* * *

  
You’ve been living together for almost two months now. There isn’t much bickering between you and Upshur any more. He doesn’t even ask about the jeep.  
  
(“There’s something about seeing your own dead bodies that brings people closer together,” he’d said to you.)  
  
The two of you mostly do your own thing. You cook your sad meals of eggs and toast and he eats raw pasta out of the bag until you yell at him to _cook it_ god dammit. You sit in the arm chair in front of the television and he sprawls on the couch. You go to therapy and Upshur goes to random jobs or his physical checks.  
  
You’re not sure if they’re doing him much good. His clothes have started to hang off of him.  
  


As much as it pains you to admit, having Upshur around feels safer than being alone. You can’t count the number of times he’s woken you up from some awful dream that leaves you shrieking and thrashing in your bed, because of _course_ you can’t just suffer in silence like he does. You have to make it everyone else’s problem too. 

  
He wakes you up by throwing something in the general direction of - or banging against - the wall separating your rooms until you come to. Shaking, sweating, trembling hands reaching for your medication so you can knock back as many pills as it takes to put you back to sleep.  
  
The more this happens the more you notice that Miles always turns the light on in the hallway after he’s woken you up. You watch it through the crack under your door. It stays on until you go back to sleep.  
  
  
He always looks just as tired as you the next day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I'm done with the world and it's done with me  
> All I wanna do is get up and leave.  
> Time falls into the garden,  
> I'm on my knees.' 
> 
> \- Foals, I'm Done With The World (& It's Done With Me)
> 
> thanks for reading!!! I promise there's a plot to this and it'll start revealing itself soon heehee


	3. Is this your soldier?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles is a strange man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings apply to this chapter.

You think the electrical system in your house is faulty.  


You bring this up with Upshur.  
  
“Upshur,” you say. “I think the electrical system in this house is faulty.”  
  
“And a good morning to you, too. Why do you think that?”  
  
You point out that all outlets hum and buzz at random intervals nearly every day. That you’ve noticed his bedroom lights flickering on and off sometimes.  
  
“I just ignore that,” he mutters. “Don’t wanna start being picky about our housing.”  
  
  
He then offers to cook you breakfast before you can say anything else.  
  
You blink and ask him to repeat himself but you heard him right the first time. Miles Upshur is offering to do something for you.  
  
You accept, and as you watch him clank and bang around the tiny kitchen the electrical problems are pushed out of your mind.  
  


  
**

Upshur and you have been talking a fair bit of late; the logical next step up from a quick hello in the morning and a see you later at night. You don’t _like_ him, and you wouldn’t consider him to be your friend, but you are no longer wishing him to leave for a weekly physical examination and never return.  
  
  
It turns out that he isn’t bad company. He’s nosy, apparently struggling to toe the line between journalist-mode and regular-human-mode, but you’re almost relieved to talk about yourself to someone who isn’t Dotti. He even let you go through copies of the notes he took inside the asylum, watching you read them with the eager expression of a child showing their parents macaroni art.  
  
You had no idea what you were supposed to say. ‘These are great, sorry about the suffering’?  
  


Instead, you dug out a few similarities in your experience. You are grateful you didn’t encounter Walker or the twins as often as he did. He is grateful he didn’t encounter Gluskin at all.  
  
  
You had asked him a few questions about the Walrider. What he witnessed of it, how it made him feel, how he could have possibly survived being trapped in the laboratory with it. He had just shrugged and claimed himself above all that _dying_ nonsense.  
  
You had also asked if he was scared of the Walrider coming back. Of it finding him and finishing what it started. You’d said to him that this is what you feared most. That you still hear it shrieking and can never work out if it’s coming from inside your head or outside your room.  
  
He didn’t give you a response.

  
  
**

  
One time, while Upshur was out at one of his physical checks, you went on the website he’d run pre-Mount Massive. You’d watched a few of his videos, read a few of his articles. There were several about Murkoff. You make a wide berth around the video file he’s uploaded, titled ‘MT_MASSIVE_EXPOSURE.mov.’  
  
  
You aren’t _quite_ ready to put yourself through that. You didn’t even watch your own footage before hitting upload on your own hastily-created website.  
  
You feel a little guilty. You know he’s watched _your_ footage.   
  
  
Turns out, Upshur was always very eloquent. Had great camera presence, always making eye contact, able to report any topic without stumbling over his words.  
  
People appear to have been really shaken by the news of his “death” back home. One account under the name of _B.L_Langerman_ had left sad comments and paid their respects on nearly every one of Upshur’s posts. And, looking through them, you hadn’t found it hard to see why the loss would leave such a hole in the journalism community. Upshur clearly had had a real drive for doing the right thing and for exposing those who didn’t.  
  
  
It makes sense that he was the only one to respond to your email.  
  


* * *

  
  
Dotti tells you that lately, you seem to be showing a lot of improvement.  
  
You’re not sure where she’s getting that idea. You aren’t doing anything differently.  
  
Instead of outright disagreeing with her, you tell her what you’ve already told Miles; that you're still afraid of the Walrider coming back to you and finishing what it started. She tells you that you’re going to be fine. You wish you could believe her. 

* * *

  
  
It’s another night where Upshur bangs on the wall to pull you out of something terrifying. You jerk awake with a gasp, kicking the blanket off yourself and sitting up. You don’t hear screaming. You can't see bloody hands reaching out. There is nothing coming for you - you’re safe.  
  
The light switches on in the hall, like it always does when this happens. You can hear Upshur shuffling about in his bedroom, settling in to go back to sleep. You heave a sigh and put your head in your hands.  
  
So you _haven’t_ gotten any better. Not even after all this therapy, all this running, all this time…  
All you can do right now is wait for the panic to fade.  
  
  
Your heart has finally started to slow down when you hear something out in the hallway. 

  
The sound is so soft that if you weren’t holding your breath at that exact moment, you would have missed it. Your head comes up off your hands. Ears straining to try pick up on it again. Ready to make a beeline for the window and jump out at a moment’s notice.  
  
There comes another soft thump, closer this time, and you scramble off the bed and straight to the window. You fumble with the latch but when you curl your fingers underneath the stupid thing and lift, it doesn’t budge. The window is jammed and you immediately back yourself into the closest corner, dropping to the ground. Trembling. The shadows in the room twisting before your very eyes.  
  
Outside your door, you hear a scrape. You - barefoot, trapped, helpless - clamp your hands over your mouth to quiet your breathing and don’t take your eyes off the door, waiting for it to burst open.  
  
  
It doesn’t.  
  
Whoever or _what_ ever is out there knows it has you trapped and is daring you to come out and greet it.  
  
  
The lights in the hallway hum and buzz. You wish that Upshur had never turned them on. You wish you hadn’t freaked out to the point he felt that he had to. You will him to stay in his room. To be safe.  
  
  
Time passes on and still nothing happens. You slowly stand up.  
  
  
As if in a trance, you start to walk towards that door. Feet making no sound against the carpet, breath catching in your throat, heart drumming against your ribs so hard they could break. Your shaking hand lifting in slow motion. The hair on the back of your neck raising. Your fingertips brushing against the doorknob.  
  
You fling the door open. It bangs the shit out of someone sitting on the ground.  
  
  
“Fucking _ow_!” Upshur yelps as he scrambles to his feet.  
  
The built up fear in your stomach pops like a balloon.  
  
Upshur steadies himself against the wall with one hand and lets out a huge breath. “Jesus _shit_ , Park. You scared the fuck outta me!”  
  
  
You are almost at a loss for words.  
Almost.  
  
  
“ _I_ scared —? What the hell are you doing out here?!” You bark. You actually have to grab a hold of the doorway to stop yourself collapsing to the ground. The relief is too much. “I can’t believe this; I thought you were someone from Murkoff! I thought one of the variants had fucking found me! I thought — Hang on, why were you even sitting out here?”  
  
  
Upshur at least has the decency to look sheepish.  
  
  
“I promise it’s nothing weird,” he says, a statement that only ever prefaces weird things. “I was making sure everything was okay.”  
  
Your jaw works furiously. “ _Making sure everything was —_ By scaring the goddamn hell out of me?! On what planet is me hearing something clomping around the hallway _not_ going to freak me out?!”  
  
“You’ve never heard it before!”  
  
You glare daggers. “It— Hang on, you’ve done this _before_?”  
  
  
The hallway lights flicker and Upshur’s grey-toned skin is very flushed.  
  
  
“Fuck me,” he says, rubbing his hand across his face. “I’m about to sound like a fuckin’ freak.”  
  
“Upshur, _how many times have you sat outside my room_?”  
  
“Listen, Waylon, I’m sorry if this fucks you off. But when I hear you freakin’ out how am i ‘sposed to know if you’re having a dream or if something’s actually going wrong, you know? I gotta come make sure you aren’t in real danger.”  
  
  
Your glare doesn’t falter.  
  
“How often?” You ask. “How often have you been coming to sit out here?”  
  
“Not every night!”  
  
“ _How often?!_ ”  
  
“Jesus! Only when you’re freaking the fuck out!”  
  
You wince a bit at his wording, at the sudden volume in his voice. He notices. Clears his throat. Almost looks apologetic.  
  
  
“How long do you usually spend sitting here?” You ask.  
  
“Dunno,” is his response.  
  
You narrow your eyes at him.  
  
He throws up his hands. “I don’t _know,_ Waylon! I’ve only done it a couple of times. I stay ’til I know you’re asleep.”  
  
He can’t meet your eyes but you can still see that his expression is one of genuine concern. You consider whether to feel invaded or appreciate that this weird, weird man is worried enough to wait outside your door like a dog.  
  
“Why?” You say, shaking your head. “What do you get out of it?”  
  
His brow furrows.  
  
“I don’t _need_ to get shit out of it,” he replies gruffly. “But if you _gotta_ know; it’s pretty fuckin’ hard to get back to sleep after someone screams you awake. So, instead of sitting on my ass waiting for the sun to come up I come sit on my ass out here.” His nose wrinkles. “I promise you, I’m not hoping to catch you jerking off or some shit; just wanna make sure you aren’t dead.”  
  
  
You’re so embarrassed. You’re somewhat touched.  
  
  
You say, “You’ve been leaving glasses of water on my table, too, haven’t you?”  
  
He snorts. “Well I wouldn’t fuckin’ have to if you’d just remember to do it yourself!” In a more serious tone he adds, “For real, I wasn’t trying to overstep any boundaries or anything here. I know you’ve been having a shit time and wanted to help out a bit. Just didn’t know how.”  
  
  
Miles has never struck you to be the caring type - and especially not one to lose sleep over it. And yet here he is, admitting to waiting outside your room like a sentry until he knew all was well. It's almost unbelievable.  
  
  
“I didn’t know you’d been having trouble sleeping,” you say. Soft, apologetic. “I’m sorry that I’ve been waking you up so much. I thought… I thought that maybe I’d stop having these dreams by now. I don’t think they’re ever going away.”  
  
Miles shrugs, shuffling his feet. “Don’t beat yourself up. I dream about that shit all the time, too, man.”  
  
You wonder what he sees when he closes his eyes.  
  
You both yawn. You feel so exhausted. He looks so exhausted.  
  
You consider, for a moment, offering a spot for him to sleep on your floor. Perhaps it would help you both feel safer.  
  
The moment passes.  
  
“I’m probably gonna head back to bed,” he grunts. “Sorry again for freaking you out. I’ll turn the lights off.”  
  
  
And then your sentinel is gone.  
  
  
You return to your bed and pull the covers to your chin. Your eyes close. You’ve left the door open and have no intention to close it.  
  


* * *

  
  
You make enough dinner for the two of you the following night - just a simple tomato dish resembling a shakshuka. You had mostly avoided each other during the day; competing to see who could feel more embarrassed by their actions. 

  
You bring a plate to Upshur where he is flopped on the couch. He sits up, eyes you, eyes the food, then takes it from you with an air of suspicion.  
  
“Mine?” He asks.  
  
You return to the kitchen to get your own plate and throw a, “Yes, obviously,” over your shoulder.  
  
  
When you come back he’s already eaten half of it. He doesn’t make eye contact when he says, “Thanks, Park. This is really good.”  
  
  
You eat without talking for a bit.  
  
  
“You’re married, right?” He asks.  
  
Back to being nosy.  
  
“I _was_ ,” you correct. “We split about a year ago.”  
  
He whistles. “That’s rough. Sorry to hear it. Must’ve been tough on the kids.”  
  
“Mm,” you grunt. “You?”  
  
He scoffs. “Me? God no.”  
  
“Do you have a girlfriend? Or did you, rather?”  
  
Upshur frowns. You hope you haven’t struck a nerve.  
  
“No,” he says eventually. “Never.”  
  
“Boyfriend?” You ask. “Partner?”  
  
He chuckles and you detect a small note of relief. “ _Very_ woke, Waylon. But no, no partner. I got by fine on my own.”  
  
You scoop up a piece of egg and keep your eyes on it when you say, “You must have been pretty lonely.” 

  
The lights are humming again. You both ignore it. 

  
“Learnt a few therapist tricks from Dotti, have we?” Upshur sniffs, but there isn’t any venom in his voice. After a moment he adds, “I guess sometimes I was. Usually I would just keep myself too busy to really feel that shit, you know? Just kick back and let my body do everything while my brain watches. Way easier.”  
  
You do know.  
  
“I get that,” you say. You clear the last bit of tomato sauce off your plate. “I used to call that ‘autopilot’. My brain’s riding shotgun and watching my life go by, but my body is the one in the driver’s seat.” 

  
He doesn’t say anything for a full minute. When you glance at him to check if he’s alright you think he looks a little bit pink - _all_ of him, his clothes included. The corner of his lip twitches upward and his dark eyes are suddenly on yours. His expression unreadable.  
  
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s exactly it.”  
  
You look away. You don’t think anyone’s described your own coping mechanism to you with such accuracy before. The feeling is foreign.  
  
"Sorry about last night," he says. "And..all the other nights, I guess. I won't do that weird shit again."   
  
"It's fine," you tell him, and are startled to find that you mean it.   
  
Miles changes the subject.  
  
“What d’you wish our fake names were?” He asks. “They didn't give us any. I thought that was a big thing in witness protection. What do you reckon they’d be if we got to choose?”  
  
You both think for a bit.  
  
“You’d be Paylon Wark,” he says.  
  
“You’d be Kilometres Downmaybe,” you say at the same time.  
  
  
Miles snorts.  
  
  
“Yours is _way_ funnier,” he says, laughing maybe the first genuine laugh you’ve seen come out of him since you got here, his nose and eyes crinkling. You’d almost forgotten how good it felt to make somebody happy. 

  
  
** 

  
  
That night, you don’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Send somebody to me tonight.  
> Send somebody bolder.
> 
> Someone who'll get it,  
> That's all." 
> 
> \- Highasakite, Someone Who'll Get It
> 
> MILES BE LIKE *tries his best*


	4. Cleaning out the fuzz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A step toward the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: mild blood. 
> 
> See footnotes for Italian translations.

Signora Dotti has started demanding that you go outside to do more than just walk to her office or grocery shop, because apparently staying inside most of the time is _unhealthy_ and _makes her feel sorry for you_.  
  
So here you are, walking up and down the beach at the crack of dawn, like an old man. The Tyrrhenian Sea murmurs sweet nothings to the wind. You’ve buried your chin in your turtleneck and hunch in on yourself, fighting a losing battle against the chill. The few other people on the shore have the same idea, rugged up in their layers, squishing close to each other and offering you nods and _ciao_ s as they pass by. To your pleasant surprise, you feel neutral being here. In public, with other people. You even say _ciao_ back sometimes. 

  
**  
  
  
Miles had acted delighted when you’d told him you had plans to go for a walk for the sake of walking. Even more so when you had added that this was going to become a regular thing. Dotti’s orders.  
  
“Look at you! Exercise Man!” He’d said, golf clapping.  
  
“Oh no. Don’t call me that,” you’d said.  
  
“Why not? I think it’ll catch on. Where are you going for walkies?”  
  
“I haven’t planned this far ahead.”  
  
“Ah. A spontaneous little man.”  
  
"...Don't call me _that_ either."  
  
  
He had then told you that he thought that it was big of you to go outside by yourself on purpose. You were a macho man now. A macho man taking a step in the right direction. He thought it could even be a good way to practice your conversational Italian skill.  
  
You hadn’t been quite sure if he was saying this because he meant it, saying it to make fun of you, or saying it because you had been unable to hide your nerves. Still, him insisting that you would be fine had felt nice. Felt healthy.  
  
  
“First, he takes a walk.” He’d said, dark eyes glittering. “Then, he takes the _world_.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
You snicker out loud at the memory. The elderly couple passing by you at that moment glance at you, also laugh for some reason, then wave at you. For a split second you half-flinch at the action. But then you wave back and even say, “ _Come stai questa mattina?_ ” when you know they are too far away to hear you and strike up a real conversation.  
You’ve spoken to several people - several _strangers_ \- already, and it isn’t even 8am.  
  
“First, he takes a walk. Then, he takes the world,” you murmur to yourself. You bury your chin further in your sweater, keeping your slight smile a secret from all those around you.  
  
A step in the right direction indeed.  
  


**  
  
  
You’re in one of your better moods when you arrive back at the house. As always, you check both ways behind you to make sure you haven’t been followed before digging the key out from one of the pots out front. Before even opening the door you know that Miles is awake; you can hear him coughing from somewhere inside the house. You wrestle with the stupid rusted key a few moments before finally unlocking the door and stepping inside.  
  
Miles is sitting on the couch in the living room. He lifts his head up as you enter, rubbing the bridge of his nose fiercely. He waves.  
  
“Exercise Man,” he says by way of greeting. “You didn’t die.”  
  
“Not today, Miles,” you reply, dumping your jacket on the coffee table.  
  
“How was walkies?”  
  
“Stop calling it that. But fine, thank you. Cold.”  
  
  
You grab some more comfortable clothes from your room then head to the bathroom, excited for a hot shower. The moment the door is closed and the fan switched on you start to undress. You are about to turn on the taps when something catches your eye in one corner of the tub. You stop unbuttoning your pants.  
  
You stare.  
  
  
“Miles?” You try. Not quite loud enough for him to hear you in the living room. Your heart drums against your ribcage, stomach turning. You take a step away from the tub. Your chest heaves.  
  
“Miles?!” You call again, much louder this time.  
  
You hear him on the other side of the door in a moment. “What? What’s up? Everything okay?!”   
  
  
You unlatch the door without a care for your current state of undress and he barges in. Looks you up and down, brows furrowed, sees that you are alive and fine. He seems about to demand what’s going on when he notices your wild-eyed stare and he pauses. He follows your gaze. 

  
“Oh, damn,” he says.  
  
“There’s blood in the drain,” you say back. 

And there is indeed a viscous red-black liquid smeared around the drain, a stark contrast against the white porcelain of the tub. You take a deep breath. Your eyes flutter shut. There is something about dark liquid staining a pale surface that takes you back somewhere you really don’t need to be right now.  
  
“Hey,” Miles says, clapping a hand on your shoulder that he retracts when you flinch. You look at him. “Let’s just wash it away, yeah? I’m sure it’s nothing to freak out over.”  
  
You shoot him an incredulous look. “Nothing to freak out over—? Miles, there is _blood_ in our _bathtub_.”  
  
He laughs, not meanly. His skin looks very grey in the bathroom light.  
  
“Are you sure it’s blood, Way? Look at it; it’s too fuckin’ dark. And how the fuck would it have gotten in there?” His lip quirks at you. His dark eyes are friendly. “It’s looks like some gunk or some shit, I dunno. Maybe our drain is clogged? I sure as shit haven’t cleaned it out since gettin’ here.”  
  
The way he talks to you calms down your rushing brain. You breathe in, deeply, catching a whiff of what smells like tobacco rolling off of him. You've never seen him smoke.  
Looking at the stain again, you admit to yourself that it _is_ a bit dark to be blood. Maybe you’ve just freaked yourself out a bit.  
  
“I’m sure it’s just some gross drain gunk,” he insists. “Put a shirt on and i’ll clean it out for ya. Deal?”

  
It’s a deal. You pull your turtleneck back on and get out of the way as Miles fishes out a bunch of cleaning supplies from behind the mirror. He pours almost a cup’s worth of shower cleaner into the tub and shoves the black stuff into the drain with a washcloth. You try not to watch it too closely.   
  
“See?” He says, teeth gritted. “Gonna be good as new in a sec.”  
  
He stands back up with his hands on his hips, admiring his own work. “Miles one, gunk zero.”  
  
  
And you would have believed his explanation, you really would have, if only when he turned back to you there wasn’t a smear of black liquid slowly leaking from his nostril.  
  
You shriek and jump away from him in surprise, your back hitting the sink and knocking several bottles onto the tile floor. Miles jerks away at all the commotion, dropping the spray bottle and holding his arms over his head as if expecting something to swing at him, but then he freezes. His nose twitches. He touches his right hand to the top of his lip.  
  
  
His remaining fingers come away glistening black.  
  


“Ah, _fuck!_ ” He exclaims.  
  
  
**  
  
  
You rap your knuckles against the bathroom door. “Miles? Is everything alright in there?”  
  
Miles’ voice is blunt, raised so he can be heard over the running faucet. “ _Yes_ , Waylon. Nothing’s happened since you asked ten seconds ago.” 

“Do you need anything? More tissues?”

“I’m _fine,_ Waylon.”Miles interjects. “See? Coming out right now.”  
  
  
The door swings open. Miles is standing there, clothes tossed back on, a towel strung over his shoulder. He waves, clearly trying to be cute. You do not wave back.  
  
“Better out than in!” He says in a weak attempt at a joke.  
  
  
Pretending not to hear, you enquire one last time; “Are you _sure_ you don’t need to go to a hospital? You’ve been in there for almost an hour. Why is it so black?”

“It’s chill! I was just standing over the sink until I knew it was done.” He notices the look on your face and hastily adds, “I’ve had bad nosebleeds since I was a kid. This is nothing new, trust me.”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me about it, then, instead of lying to me?”  
  
“Okay well I didn’t lie; I just led you to a different outcome to avoid the truth.”  
  
  
You want to shake the journalism out of him. Instead you just ask, again, if he’s feeling alright.  
  


Miles rolls his eyes and pushes past you into the living room. “Yes, _mom_ , I’m _fine!_ ”  
  
There is an air of finality to his voice and you realise that it might be time to drop the subject. You push the dark sheen of his blood from your head.  
  
“Okay,” you sigh. “I guess I'm going to have a shower now.”  
  
  
Miles is in the kitchen, opening a bag of pasta. He fishes out a handful and crunches one of the penne before he notices you glaring. He sheepishly lowers the bag. Clears his throat.  
  
“I was gonna cook it,” he lies. “But yeah, go shower. Sorry to keep you.”  
  
  
You are about to close the bathroom door when he calls, “Hey, Waylon?”  
  
You poke your head out.  
  
“I just didn’t want to worry you,” he says.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Signora Dotti stares in amazement. “So, _Mr. Upshur_ was the cause of the gunk!”  
  
“Not…not _quite,_ ” You reply, frowning. _“_ Unless you consider him _bleeding heavily from the nose_ as _causing the gunk_.”  
  
“ _Mio Dio,_ who cares. Do you know if he was okay? You take him to the doctor?”  
  
“He didn’t need to go. He said he’s always had really bad nosebleeds and didn’t tell me because he didn’t want me worrying too much about him. I guess that he just _forgot_ to wash it all out of the tub.”  
  
“Well it looks like you are worrying too much about him now.”  
  
  
You roll your eyes. Dotti smiles pleasantly. She is wearing a deep green sweater, vibrant against her dark skin, and a necklace of chunky brown beads. She reminds you somewhat of an old psychic. You half expect her to reach over and start reading your palms.  
  
  
“I think the fact that you were able to process seeing the bloodstain, _without_ it triggering any hallucinations, is a very good sign,” she tells you. “You are showing real progress, Waylon. You see? I told you that your obsessive loneliness was getting you nowhere.”  
  
“I have been feeling okay lately,” You admit, and hate that you feel guilty saying that.  
  
  
Signora Dotti notices. She always does.  
  
  
“ _Waylon Park_ ,” she says, taking off her glasses. “You have gone through quite enough. I think it is okay that you are okay. You deserve to be okay.”  
  
  
Your session draws to a close and she tells you that she won’t be able to make Tuesday evening next week due to a family commitment. She thinks that maybe you can use your free night to do something fun. ‘Arts and crafts’ is her top suggestion.  
  
  
You thank her for letting you know, thank her for today, and are about to leave the office when she calls you back for a bit.  
  
  
She tells you she’s happy you seem to have found yourself a friend. You suppose you are, too.  
  
  
**  
  
  
On the walk back home you duck into a convenience store and buy as many tissue boxes as you can carry.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Scattered mind, I call it a friend  
> I wish I thought a bit less, and spoke up instead.' 
> 
> \- Dayglow, Fuzzybrain
> 
> Waylon's Italian is just "how are you this morning." I'm sure you all know what ciao means.
> 
> Clank your chunky beads for Signora Dotti


	5. Burn Your Kingdom Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh!!!!!

At some point in your Ravello lives, you were given the role of the cook and Miles put in charge of cleaning up afterwards. This is weird for you. In all your relationships of any kind - with Lisa especially - you were _not_ the foodie. You could never find the balance between complete lack of flavour and making something spicy that it was inedible. You were great at making things look organised on the plate and that was it.  
  
Apparently you’re still smarter in the kitchen than Miles, who sometimes can’t even be bothered to boil water for two-minute noodles and will just break the noodle brick into little pieces and be quite content to crunch on them.  
  
Something has been bothering you for some time now.  
  
You swear that you’ve been making good, nutritious meals the entire time you’ve been in charge of cooking - having two sons will teach you that - and yet, Miles keeps getting skinnier. He definitely eats, and he can put away maybe even more than you. But his cheekbones remain hollow, and when you catch glimpses of his body as he walks from his room to the bathroom, you notice his ribs are quite prominent. Sometimes you pull up the homepage of his website to compare his pre-asylum author’s photo with the real thing.  
The real thing does _not_ look well.  
  
However; you don’t know if it’s your place to ask him about it.  
  
Miles never goes for seconds during mealtimes, nor does he eat leftovers out of the fridge. You find a way around this by always serving yourself a far bigger portion than you need, and making a big song and dance about feeling too full to finish it and not wanting to waste a _whole container_ storing the food. This is usually when Miles will shuffle in his chair and offer to just eat the rest of itnow so nothing goes to waste, and you will thank him while not-too-eagerly passing the plate over to him.  
  
The idea of outright telling him you’re worried about his health seems so outlandish. An invitation for him to make fun of you.  
  
  
**  
  
  
You ask him how his nosebleeds are going. He smiles at you and tells you he hasn’t had a bad one since last week, with you, in the bathroom. His brown eyes are deep. Gentle. He still smells like tobacco although you’ve never seen him smoke.  
  
You notice that he’s already gone through two of the several tissue boxes you bought. You don’t bring this up. You don’t ask him why his blood came out thick and black. Just smile, tell him you’re glad he’s doing well, ask what he wants for dinner. Anxiety gnaws on you all the while, a starving dog with a bone, because you’re not sure why he insists on lying to you.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Your first therapy-free Tuesday night in months rolls around. You hadn’t bothered telling Miles about it, seeing as he is usually busy during your therapy sessions doing his odd jobs or meeting up with your agents.  
  
You decide to go for a walk. The night is crisp, the sky very black, the breeze nipping at your flesh through your layers. The roads all curve downhill. Your leg feels strong, ready for the wander. It hasn’t given you hell for some time.  
You’re not sure where you’re going, exactly. On either side of you the street is flanked by cobblestone walls, giving you a feeling somewhere between safety and claustrophobia.It’s quiet. You hadn’t expected it to be this quiet.  
  
You imagine, for a moment, that Lisa walks beside you. Your boys running up ahead, stumbling over themselves, darting in and out of the side streets. It has been some time since you’ve allowed your mind to wander to the point of fantasy. You are struck by melancholy, by nostalgia. You find yourself smiling nonetheless. And despite the empty streets, despite Lisa not being with you and maybe never being with you again, you don’t feel alone.  
  
Maybe it is okay that you’re going okay.  
  
In the distance you hear what sounds like a trashcan being knocked over. An excited shriek.  
  
You round a bend. In front of you, a stone staircase winds around a corner and disappears from sight. Terraces rise up on either side, walling you in from the rest of the world, the street hardly illuminated by soft orange lamps. The feeling of being enclosed starts to increase as you head down there. You ignore it. The lamp flickers as you pass underneath. There’s another shriek a few blocks over. Excited teenagers? An animal of some kind?  
  
You stop walking.  
  
It’s then that you realise you’re a good distance from your place with no phone on you, and you haven’t seen another soul since leaving the house. Your breathing quickens. The walls are suddenly too high, the street too narrow, everything too dark. You’re small, insignificant. Too easy a target.  
  
You are just about to turn tail and head home when there’s a bang from the foot of the stairway below you and a dark figure sprints into view without warning, crashing headlong into the wall and bouncing off it in their apparent haste, letting out a pained grunt. They stumble toward the stairs and make it up one step when you see something rapidly approaching behind them. In the dim glow of the street lamps you make out that the running figure is a man in a heavy black jacket, a familiar tactical uniform, and the thing behind him…  
  
You’ve seen that shape before, too.  
  
Every lamp in the stairway hums. The man’s eyes roll up to meet yours for one moment before he is forcefully yanked backwards, something pulling him into the dark with inhuman strength. The lights below you shut off fully, the ones behind you dimming.  
You hear the man scream from the black, a sound that cuts off as soon as he starts. The all-too-familiar thump of a body hitting the ground.  
  
You take a rushed step backwards. Misjudge your position on the stairway, catch your ankle on the stone, stumbling sideways and letting out a short yelp when you knock yourself on the hard stone wall. Pain spikes up your leg.  
  
The electrical roaring quiets down.  
  
You pull yourself back up, entire body prickling all over. Unable to run, speak, think. Something down there in the dark is approaching you on feet that make no noise when they touch the ground, making its way up the stairway with deliberate slowness. It comes closer, just at the edge of the light, a familiar hulking shape that shimmers and twists before your eyes. You can’t move. It knows you can’t move. It steps into the light. Turns its face upwards.  
  
The Walrider stands below you.  
  
“Jesus _fuck_!” You scream.  
  
You twist on your heel and bolt back up the stairway.  
  
A split second later you hear the metallic shrieking of the creature as it gives chase. The blood in your skull roars, the pounding of your shoes against the stone echoes sharply back to you. You throw a glance over your shoulder. It’s so much closer to you than you had expected, just a few feet away. It emits a fierce buzz. Every street lamp blows out when it passes beneath them, plunging the streets into darkness.  
  
Somehow, you force yourself to run faster. Breath tearing at your throat, eyes watering. Refusing to look over your shoulder at the ghost again to see its claws extending toward you, dripping with blood, tearing at your flesh…  
  
You round a corner so fast you almost fly off course, and find yourself barreling down your street. You’re close. You’re so close to your house, so close to reuniting with Miles - you tell yourself that he’ll know what to do. He can keep you safe.  
  
You run straight into the wood of your front door and fumble with the keys, jabbing them into the lock as you finally allow yourself a glance back.  
  
There is a smokey figure at the other end of the street.  
  
  
You waste no more time than that. The door is opened and you fall inside, twisting around and slamming it behind you, running through the hall and into the living room.  
  
“Miles?!” You cry out. “Miles, where—”  
  
He’s not here, you realise, cutting off.  
  
Behind you, you hear the front door burst open. The light above buzzes.  
  
“No,” you whimper. You dive behind the couch, like that will help, like it wont have already seen you. You land awkwardly on your ankle. “No, no, no, no, no—”  
  
  
The Walrider appears in the living room, the nanites whirling around its legs giving off the impression of levitation. Its featureless face is looking straight at you. You’re trapped with it.  
You’re going to die. You’ve been running for so long, so fucking long, and this is where it ends.  
  
You just hope there is something left of you for Miles to find.  
  
The Walrider reaches one hand in your direction, its ghostly claws twitching. Blood drips from its fingers onto the floor. Your breath comes out in a sob.  
  
_Stop_ , you scream inside your head, unable to speak. _Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop…  
_  
  
Mouth open, chest heaving, you watch as the Walrider approaches, an impenetrable cloud of flies. The nanites start to twist and whirl around each other, forming a more solid shape, building, building, building something more humanoid with two legs and two arms and dark hair and only eight fingers…

Your brain short circuits.  
  
Miles stares at you where he stands, his mouth open and his black eyes wide.  
  
You surge over the side of the arm chair and vomit. Everything falls apart.

  
_Miles Upshur is the Walrider and the Walrider is Miles Upshur.  
_

“You,” you spit, pointing one shaking finger in his direction. “ _You_.”  
  
Miles has the audacity to look as horrified as you are.  
  
“Waylon—”  
  
“They told me it was gone,” you stutter, voice breaking all over the place, “they told me that I was safe from that fu-fu-fucking thing, that Mount Massive and Mmmmurkoff were behind me, and all th-this time it’s been right under my ffffucking nose.”  
  
You had been so stupid. You had trusted him. You had trusted everyone.  
It all makes sense now. The colour of the blood pouring from his nose, the off-grey sheen to his skin, the constant issues with your electricity.  
  
All this time you’ve been living with a liar.  
  
Miles holds his still-smoking arms out, an attempt to calm the cornered animal you are.

You, still on your knees, start grabbing things off the coffee table next to you and pelting them in his direction. He ducks out of the way of a glass but the heavy book that follows it gets him on the shoulder. You scramble to your feet and skitter towards the kitchen - you need a knife, something sharp, anything. You hear his footsteps following you.  
  
“Waylon,” he says, his voice calm, miraculously calm, “ _please_ don’t throw any more things at me. I need you to just let me talk and I’ll explain everything.”  
  
You turn around and you can’t breathe. You see blood oozing from every orifice in his face, his arms pitch black and his fingers tapering into claws, his whole body warping in and out of being human. The lights above you flicker and buzz, threatening to blow out and trap you in the darkness with _him_.  
He jerks his head to one side and bares his teeth at you in a grotesque imitation of a smile.  
You shut your eyes and wail.  
  
“Oh God! No, no, no, no—”  
  
“Waylon, please, just _listen_ to me!”  
  
He’s upon you now. You shove as hard as you can.  
  
You hear a crash and crack one eye open. The force of your push had thrown Miles into the dining table, knocking it over.  
He looks normal. Human. There is no blood on his face, no claws. You know it’s a trick. You know he’s seconds away from transforming.  
  
He doesn’t make eye contact with you.  
  
“Way,” he says in a tight voice. “I’m not gonna come near you. I’m gonna stay right here, okay? I just need you to listen to me.”  
“I c-c-can’t…can’t even look at you,” you hiss, although you are unable to take your eyes off him.  
  
He laughs joylessly. “I get it, Way. Seriously I do. Can’t look at myself much either anymore. But I’m gonna need you to trust me, alright? I am not gonna hurt you.”  
“Stop lying to me,” you snarl. “When is everyone going to _stop fucking lying_ to me?!”  
  
Miles winces.  
  
“You’re going to kill me,” you say. “You’re going to t-tear me to pieces l-like you did with B-B-Blaire—” You sob, shoulders heaving. “Y-you-you _killed_ that man back thhhhere! Fucking killed him!”  
Miles, still not looking at you, nods the whole time you talk. 

“I hear you, Waylon,” He says. “I remember seeing the swarm when Billy was the one in the driver’s seat and I was real fuckin’ scared, too. But it’s different now, I swear to you, _I’m_ different. I can control it. That man, he was a Murkoff agent— They’re _everywhere_ , Waylon, even here. I had to—”  
  
You take a step back and your back hits the counter.  
_Trapped_.  
You whimper.  
  
Miles looks at you then, his spiel cutting off. His expression is earnest to the point of desperation.  
  
He takes a step towards you, hands curled up in front of his chest. He says, “Waylon, c’mon man. I…I would never do anything to hurt you. I need you to believe me, I—”  
  
You grab blindly behind you and throw.  
  
“Hey, stop— _stop,_ Waylon!” Miles doesn’t even flinch when the wooden spoon clocks him upside the chin.  
  
“Go away!” You yelp, shrinking into a ball on the floor. Voice cracking and catching so much you hardly form words. “G-go _away_! I can’t— please don’t— I…”  
  
“It’s me,” he insists, “It’s Miles.”  
  
  
Liar. Liar. Liar.  
You tell him he’s a liar.  
  
He groans. He groans, as if you are hurting him, and starts to say, “For fuck’s sake, can you just LOOK AT ME—” but his voice raises into a shriek like the tearing of metal and cuts off just as abruptly. The air around you erupts with buzzing. You bury your face in your arms. You hear him gasp. Pretending to feel guilty.  
  
  
“I ca-can’t…can’t look at you,” you repeat into your sleeve.  
  
“I’m staying right here,” he says. “Waylon, I’m staying right here. Not gonna come near you.”  
  
You lift your head and stare at the wall behind him. The inside of your head is an ocean.  
  
“They told me I was going to be safe with you. The FBI, Dotti, you… everyone always lies to me. And _you…_ ” you shake your head, “you might be the worst one. You’re nothing but a fucking reminder of everything I’m trying so hard to forget.”  


In your peripheral, you see him flinch.  
  
“What can I do?” He asks. “What can I do to make you believe that I won’t hurt you?”  
  
The question hangs between the two of you.  
  
“Get out.” You say at last.  
  
The lights flicker, dimming almost to black for a moment. You are unable to tell the difference between the electrical buzzing and the blood howling in your own head. **  
  
**“I don’t want to leave you, Waylon,” he says. His voice breaks on your name. “I can protect you from them. I just want you to be—”  
  
You clamp your hands down over your ears and pitch forwards until your face is pressed into the floor. The blood rattles in your head. You beg it, beg Miles, to shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up.

  
The roaring only gets louder. You let it consume you.  
  
  


* * *

You open your eyes.  
  
The house is empty.  
  
You clamber to your feet into the familiarity of being completely alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'You can't keep it out  
> It's coming through the walls  
> To devastate your heart,  
> To take your soul.' 
> 
> \- Florence + The Machine, Seven Devils
> 
> WOW WHO SAW THIS ONE COMING. WHO KNEW MILES WAS THE WALRIDER WOW WHAT A TWEEST!!!! 
> 
> anyway waylon's a lonely bitch again. tfw ur roommate is an eldritch abomination am i right ladies


	6. CRY BOY CRY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw :-(
> 
> I am not churning these out that fast i swear; I've prewritten everything up to chapter 11. wish me luck that i can continue updating at this speed. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: depictions of depression, vaguely destructive behaviour.

You sit on the floor, picking at the shards of your life before you but unable to piece them together again.  
  
Miles is gone. Somewhere between you screaming at him and you regaining consciousness he left you.  
  
There’s a note on the fridge that reads;  
‘ _I’m sorry.  
Call me if you need me. I can explain everything.’  
  
_A scribbled mobile number below it. Most likely for his burner phone.  
  
You are torn between desperately wanting an explanation, needing it, needing _anything at all_ from him, and never wanting to see his face again.  
  
You don’t take his note off the fridge door and keep glancing at it, standing well back as if it will jump out and bite you. You wish you could just throw it away and move on.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The terrace has very quickly started to feel so much bigger, the shadows melting from the walls and rearing up in front of you, dark and sinister. It’s quieter, but it is not peaceful. In the back of your mind you’re aware that you must reek of sweat and dried vomit - but when you go to the shower to clean yourself you swear you smell blood, hear it gurgling within the drainage systems. You can’t take your clothes off. You can’t expose your frail body, helpless, naked, pathetic, an easy target for anyone looking for a fight. No one would even find you.  
  
You focus instead on scrubbing the vomit out of the armchair, ruining the cushion covers with your vigorous cleaning, not stopping until the poor thing is wrecked with bleach but at least it doesn’t smell like misery anymore.  
  
You don’t sleep in your own bedroom that night, favouring the armchair, because the jammed window in there taunts you with its desperation for you to try open it in a pinch only to find yourself trapped. You won’t give it that satisfaction.  


You sit in the armchair and stare into the flickering television, not understanding a word of the Italian being said to you, but glad that your brain is no longer able to fill in the oppressive silence with noises of its own design. For the first time in a long time, the lights aren’t buzzing. You wish you could find the quiet peaceful. Instead it feels heavy. Unfamiliar.

_Waylon, please just_ listen _to me!_

It doesn’t sit well with you, being lied to. Never has. You and Lisa had not been a perfect couple but you had always been honest with one another, with your children. Miles clearly had different feelings about this. He had lied to your face about his physical condition, your FBI agents had lied to you when they’d insisted you would be safe here…  
Shit, you think. Maybe even _Dotti_ has been lying this whole time.  
  
The Walrider creeps through the back of your mind no matter how much you try focus on the Italian dramas blasting from the TV. Miles is the host, and has been for…however long it’s been since he stepped inside Mount Massive. Miles is the Walrider, there are Murkoff agents in Italy, and you have been lied to for almost four months.  
  
  
**  
  


The sun comes up. You send Signora Dotti a text asking if you can maybe do a phone consultation today. You’re unwell, you tell her.  
Fucking understatement.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It hasn’t been this bad in a long time. Your eyes hurt from sitting so close to the television every night but you can’t look anywhere else for fear of what you’d see.  
  
You make sure that you eat - or at least attempt to. You catch yourself heaping huge portions of microwavable curry and rice on your plate with the idea that Miles can just finish off what you don’t. Then you pause. Sigh. Scoop most of it out and back into the container, already sick of this habit you’ve developed through living with him.   
  
Something settles in that makes your body - your bones, your heart, you - feel so heavy. You know the feeling too well and welcome it with open arms.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
You let Dotti know that you’re not feeling up to a phone consultation today, either. When was the last time you saw her?  
  
‘ _What! What is going on?_ ’ She texts.  
  
She gets no reply.  
  
You sleep in short bursts with no one to pull you from your nightmares. Nightmares where you can see Miles walking away so you run towards him, but when you grab his shoulder he turns around and his face is gone.  
  
Miles Upshur is the Walrider. You repeat this to yourself but it doesn’t stop you from wishing he was here.  
  
 _It’s different now, I swear to you,_ I’m _different. I can control it.  
  
_ He’d been so desperate to stay with you. Maybe out of some instinct to protect you. More likely that he just didn’t want to lose his house. You feel sick, often. Guilty. You were the reason he had come to Mount Massive in the first place. You were the one who had called him there.  
 _  
_Is it your fault that Miles is the way he is?  
  
  
**  
  
  
Miles can’t have taken much with him, wherever he’s gone. He’s left his bedroom door open and whenever you peak inside, drawn by the weird light inside, you confirm that most of his stuff is still in there. You’d always considered just closing the door and forgetting the room was there. Forgetting that he was ever there.  
  
Tonight, you look away from the television. You glance at the empty couch, then the bedroom. The inside glows. The open door seems to beckon you. You get out of the chair and follow the feeling like a man entranced, stepping into his room cautiously. You don’t know what you expect. An alarm to go off? The Walrider to appear and stab you through the belly?  
What you get is silence.  
  
Miles’ room is stuffy and smells faintly of vanilla and tobacco. It takes no time at all for you to register that what you are smelling is him, so intrinsically him that it’s like he’s standing in front of you. You take a moment in front of the doorway, breathing in, breathing out, before moving further inside.  
  
All of his drawers are open, too. Clothes are strewn carelessly across the floor, the bed is unmade, some of his jackets have been knocked off their coat hangers inside the cupboard. He must have been in such a rush.  
Even the lamp next to his bed is still on. You reach over to switch it off and something catches your eye beside it.  
  
It’s a journal. Beautifully crafted, bound in dark leather, ‘M.U’ engraved in one corner with small gold letters. It couldn’t possibly be the one Miles took into Mount Massive - it’s in excellent condition.  
  
You look over your shoulder before you pick it up, as if Miles would pick right now to come back home and catch you in the act of invading his privacy.  
  
You open the journal, just to flip through it, but notice he’s only written on four of the pages. His writing is disastrous. You can’t imagine it’d be easy for him to hold a pen.  
  
The first entry is by far the longest. You are just scanning the page when you see your name written down and you find that you’re almost unable to stop yourself from reading the entire scrawl:  
  
  
’ _07/16  
_  
 _Thought I’d try get back into this. Doc says I need an outlet that doesn’t involve blacking out, maybe even something I enjoy. Feels like I haven’t held a pen in years. Didn’t think I’d be able to. I’m two weeks Prozac free, so cheers to that. Not like I’m happy about it. Hammond says it’d be a good thing for W if I went manic again. Dunno if that’s the truth or he’s got a thing for crazy-eyed men.'  
  
  
_ You really don’t know what he’s talking about. The entry continues:  
 _  
  
'Found Waylon Park. Skittish fucker. Flinches at the slightest noise. Don’t blame him. Seen his footage maybe twice now and I get it - I’d be the same if it wasn’t for the whole SITUATION I have going on. Starting to consider myself lucky.  
_

_The fuck am I ‘sposed to write in this thing? We’re in Ravello now, I guess. Have been for a couple days. Hammond told me that Murkoff keeps popping up and down in Europe like a fucked up whack-a-mole game and it’s somehow fallen on me to stop the spread. Fuck this shit. Fuck Hammond and the rest of the FBI for using me as their weapon. If they don’t figure out how to cure me as payment…  
  
Park walks around all WOE IS ME acting like he’s the only man on the planet to have PTSD. Don’t think he’d be able to handle knowing what I am or what I do. I know I can’t.  
Kinda wanna kick him. Least I can do after the fucker lost my Jeep — how the FUCK do you LOSE a JEEP!!!’  
  
  
_It’s as if you can hear Miles’ voice reading it to you right now. Your throat tightens. There’s a weird smile on your face that you can’t fight off. Entry one finishes there and you, feeling guilty to be so nosy but unable to stop, read on:  
  
  
’ _08/14  
  
Saw my own dead body the other day. Get to scratch that off my bucket list TWO times now. Ha.  
  
Park didn’t take it well. Heard him crying himself to sleep afterwards - AGAIN. Made sure to leave a cup of water next to him - AGAIN - so the bitch doesn’t die of dehydration before we’re done here. I’ve had worse company - I used to work alone! Ha.  
  
Getting harder to keep my SITUATION in check. Nearly blew out a light watching the news report, in front of Park. Asked if I can go back on the ‘zac. Shut down immediately. I _know _it isn’t good for W, but I feel like they’re not thinking about if it’s good for_ me _.  
_  
 _Hammond tells me there’s more Murkoff assholes in Italy than ever. He doesn’t think they’ve caught onto us being here yet. Nonetheless, he wants me to start meeting up with him twice a week; one night of checking my condition, and one night of pure murder. Hate to think of what Park would do if he ever found out.  
  
I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Hammond doesn’t either.’  
  
  
_The third and fourth page both have only had a few sentences written on them. You read both entries in a rush.  
 _  
  
’09/15  
  
Dear Journal, sorry I don’t update you often. My reason is that I’ve been a bit busy fighting death and also I don’t fucking care.  
  
Hammond tells me Murkoff knows we’re alive. They just don’t know _where _we are. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.  
  
Waylon’s an okay guy. Seemed totally fine with me sitting outside his room at night like a freak, and bleeding from the face like a freak. He’s kind. Doesn’t deserve this shit.’  
  
  
_Your breath had caught in your throat sometime during that entry and you let it out shakily.  
 _  
  
’09/25  
  
Fuck nosebleeds. Fuck Murkoff. Fuck this piece of shit body.  
  
Wish I’d met Waylon sooner. Wish circumstances were different.’  
  
  
_There is nothing written after that. You flip through the journal once more, twice more, almost desperate to find something else, something that lets you know there isn’t anything to worry about and this is all a prank. But the rest of the book is empty. You swallow, loudly. Your stomach twists in knots, hair on the back of your neck prickling.  
  
 _Murkoff knows you’re alive_.  
  
Your phone rings.  
You gasp at the sudden noise and drop the journal onto Miles’ bed. You yank the phone from your pocket. Incoming call from Dotti.  
  
You answer it.  
  
“Mister Waylon,” she says right away. “What is happening with you? Why are you not replying to my text? There is no way you are too sick to even _speak_ to me. You want to go to a doctor?”  


It feels strange to talk to somebody out loud for the first time in…days? Weeks? 

That doesn’t stop you from spilling everything the moment you open your mouth to answer her. You tell her what happened with Miles, about the Walrider, the fight you had, the journal, everything going on in the background with Murkoff and the FBI. You tell her that Miles left and now you are alone, have been so alone for the past two weeks, that you haven’t been able to leave the house or even take a shower. Unbelievable.  


“Hm,” says she.  
  
You finally ask, “You knew about him too, didn’t you? You _knew_ what he was and you never told me?!”  
  
She is quiet for some time.  
  
“I have never met Miles Upshur,” she says to you, “but I have no reason to not trust everything I have heard about him. _Sí_ , Miles Upshur is currently host to the Walrider. No, he is not a threat to you or any non-Murkoff personnel. It was wrong to withhold this information from you and I apologise; however, I was under strict orders to not break this news to you until after Murkoff had been neutralised in Ravello. This revelation has all come too soon.”  
  
“I knew _something_ was up,” you grunt. “With all his nosebleeds and weird behaviour, I might have worked it out on my own.”

_  
_Dotti chuckles. You hear her shuffling about on her end, a dog barking.  
  
She says, “Waylon, I want you to understand that even though I withheld this information from you, you can trust me. Everything I have said to you in our sessions has been in your best interests - has been to help you get better. And look at you! Before this setback you were showing major improvement, more so in a few months than the entire year you spent in Canada.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” you say, “you’re good at what you do, I suppose.”  
  
“Waylon!” She scoffs. “True, but that’s not what I meant. I think I might owe Miles a thank you for doing half my job for me.” _  
  
_You blink.  
  
“ _Miles_?” You repeat.  
  
“Yes, Miles. I must admit, at first I was worried when you spoke so badly of the man but that all changed. You had somebody who cared about you for the sake of empathy, and maybe your heart realised that before your brain did because suddenly there you were, improving without even realising it.”  
  
“But—” You start.  
  
“Are you lonely again, Waylon?”  
  
You furrow your brow. “I don’t… I can’t really tell, anymore.”  
 _  
_“Hm,” she says. “That is unfortunate to hear. I think it might be time to reconsider your decision to be by yourself. Walrider host or not, when I wasn’t helping you, Miles was. _I_ wasn’t the one to sit outside your door to make sure you were okay. _I_ didn’t leave a glass of water by your bed. I do many other good things, but Miles gave you something that no one else could. Not even I.”

  
You rub a hand across your eyes. You almost don’t want to ask.  
  
You do anyway. “And what would that be?”  
  
“ _Dannazione,_ Waylon!" She harrumphs. "You are _obtuse_ sometimes! Think about that first time the two of you sat down and really talked about the asylum together. Tell me again; how did that shared moment make you feel?”  
  
You need to fish for the answer, and when you find it you screw your eyes shut.  
  
 _Shit.  
  
_ “Understood,” you say, finally. “Talking to Miles made me feel understood.”  
  
“Ah, I thought you might say this!” Dotti sniffs. “If you asked me, I would tell you that you are a lucky man, Waylon. Some people may never find what you did when you met Upshur. There’s such potential there for you to have someone who gets it."  
  
God, you think she might be right.   
  
You open your mouth to respond but she beats you to it, saying, "I can sit across from you twice a week and give you all the wonderful advice in the world, almost any advice you need, but I will _never_ be able to fully understand what you went through all that time ago.”  
  
You are quiet. Your chest feels heavy. You sit down on the edge of Miles’ bed.  
  
She continues, “Waylon, when somebody gets you, really gets you, you don’t just tell them to leave at the first sign of trouble. Don’t spiral into the idea that you are the only person who could possibly feel like this, because you’re not. You never will be. There is a man out there who sees you for the human beneath the experiences. I think it's time you did the same for him.”  


_The human beneath_.  
  
You’re not sure when you started crying. You scrub your eyes with the back of your hand, sniffling like a child.  
  
She sounds like she is smiling.  
  
“How healing it is, to be understood,” she says.  
  
In that moment, where everything feels like it is crashing down around you, you fall into Miles’ pillow and bury your face into it, breathing the smoke-vanilla smell of him, half-choking on your sobs, the heaviness of isolation finally crushing you.  
You’ve fucked up. You had something so rare and you fucked it up.  
  
Petulant, whiney, snivelling, you ask, “What am I supposed to do?”  
  
“Find that man,” she tells you. “Sit with him and tell him that you see him.”  
  
“And then what do I do? What do we do?”  
  
“Let him see you back.”  
  
“I think I’m lonely.”  
  
“ _Sì, sì,_ you are so lonely, Waylon. Maybe the most lonely man on earth! Who can tell? But I think that you will be okay.”  
  
You’re sobbing.  
  
“Waylon, _you will be okay_. Find Miles. Once you are done with the crying, of course.”  
  
You’re still sobbing.  
  
“I think you deserve to start healing, my dear.”  
  
“I don’t want to be lonely anymore,” you choke out. “I’ve lost everything once, I can’t do it again. I- I can’t stand it.” 

“No one can.”  
  
“I’m weak.”  
  
“The meek shall inherit,” she quotes, “and you, Waylon Park, have survived hell.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
That night you finally make it into your own room, where you bury yourself under the blankets and cry until you fall asleep. You wake up dehydrated with a pounding headache, but somehow a clearer mind than you’ve had in some time.  
  
You’re going to leave this apartment today. You’re going to find Miles.

You’re not going to be lonely anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The love that you need will never be found at home.' 
> 
> \- Bronski Beat, Smalltown Boy
> 
> Waylon: wow. no one understands me. no one knows what its like to have survived mt massive  
> Miles: hey--  
> Waylon: NO ONE WILL EVER GET IT
> 
> Anyways thanks y'all for reading and a bigger thanks to the really nice reviews, they fill me with HAPPY and MOTIVATION


	7. God, it's been a hell of a week!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion. A reintroduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short and sweet. 
> 
> No warnings apply.

You’ve spent the entire day writing down all the possible places Miles could be heading to right now and attempting to find a middle ground between them, feeling like a detective with very little idea what they are doing. You know you’ve wasted enough time already. For all you know, he might not even be in Ravello anymore. It’s been over a week since he left and you haven’t even tried to call him.  
  
You _still_ don’t try to call him. Reading through his journal put the deep fear of Murkoff back into you and you wouldn’t risk getting either of you found out, your call intercepted. It doesn’t matter how much you miss the sound of his voice.  
  
You really never thought he’d be somebody you missed.  
  
By the time the sun starts to set your list of Possible Miles Locations consists only of five different local bars and the beach. You wish you’d asked him more about his hobbies. Maybe you should have asked him more about everything.  
  
You sigh. Rip the page from the notebook. The sound is so loud in the empty living room.  
  
You grab a thick black sweater and a red jacket from your room, pulling them both on as you leave the house, clutching the piece of paper to your chest as if it is made of gold.  
  
  


* * *

  
You half-run-half-limp the entire way to the beach, looking like an absolute moron sprinting in your thick coat and jeans. People stay well out of your way. You complete two rounds of the shore, your boots slipping and sliding in the sand.  
  
Miles isn’t here. You move on.  
  


* * *

  
The sun has sunk further into the horizon. There isn’t long until the sky will be dark and everything dark with it, and you won’t be able to tell Miles from a street pole. You follow the maps app, holding your phone in front of you, your compass.  
  
The first of the five bars is outdoor seating only. There aren’t many people here. Too cold to sit outside. A man behind the counter waves at you, yells a greeting in broken English, beckons you to come sit a while. You decline politely in Italian.  
  
Miles isn’t here. You move on.  
  


* * *

  
It’s dark when you reach the second bar that turns out to actually be a quaint restaurant only a few minutes from your place. You are out of breath. You don’t know how much longer you can keep up this wild goose chase when you don’t even know if he’s in the town. The weight of the phone in your hands tempts you to simply dial the number, get this over with. Would that be a cop out? Would it really put you in danger?  
  
You take your jacket off. Too hot. So tired. Puffing and panting, you have a peek through the windows. There are a lot of people in there, smiling, sharing heaping plates of food, laughing. No one pays any notice the very out-of-breath man outside.  
  
Miles isn’t here. You move on.  
  


* * *

  
Finally, you find him. You find him the way he found you all those months ago.  
  
It takes you several minutes to gather enough courage to actually walk inside the third bar. You know he’s in there. You don’t know _how_ you know, but you do.  
The door is unattended and it’s quiet inside, but the idea of being indoors with people you don’t already know - especially when you’re a sweaty mess, glasses fogged up - makes you queasy. Or maybe all the running has made you queasy. You don’t think about it ( _too_ hard).  
  
You take a step inside. Stand awkwardly in front of the door to scan the whole area. It’s safe. It must be.  
  
Then you see Miles. Your heart could stop.  
  
You start to approach him where he sits (very alone) at the bar. Just a vaguely human shape in the dim light. You pause. Think that maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe he’ll take one look at your panting, slightly-sweaty self and realise he doesn’t want to be near you. You ignore that thought. You approach him again and get his attention by drumming your fingers against the counter. You’re nervous, so fucking nervous.  
  
He looks up at you. You look down at him for the first time in more than a week. The bulbs above you flicker.  
You realise you might just be a sucker for dark hair and dark eyes.  
  
Nothing is said for a while. You can’t get the words out. You aren’t sure why. It can’t be pride for you have very little of that. He’s gazing up at you, clearly waiting for you to talk. Why can’t you do it?  
  
He speaks first.  
  
“Oh,” says Miles. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”  
  
Instead of doing anything useful you swallow and plop down in the seat next to him, staring straight ahead.  
  
“I’d understand if I didn’t,” he goes on. He rubs his eyes with one hand, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’d get it, I really would. Fuck, I… I can’t even look into the mirror without being reminded of that place. The shit you said back there, yeah it hurt, it fuckin’ hurt, but you’re not wrong. I _am_ a monst—”  
  
You finally man up enough to interrupt him.  
  
“Hi,” you say, twisting in your seat to face him properly. You extend a hand. “My name is Waylon Park. I’m thirty-one years old and I used to be a software engineer for Murkoff corporation, until everything went to shit and I lost it. Lost everything, I mean. Well, maybe I did lose _it_ as well because I also happen to be pretty damn fucked in the head now.”  
  
He blinks.  
  
“I saw Mount Massive in everything, even after all this time." You go on, "You’ve seen me, Miles. You _know_ how bad I am. You’ve had to lie in the other room listening to me freak out so many times and I can’t imagine how crazy that would drive you. Nowhere, nothing felt safe. No matter what I did it was always just around the corner, always right behind me, I just…I could see Mount Massive in everything.”  
  
You inhale. “But I never saw it in you.”  
  
His lips have parted slightly. You’re definitely a sucker for dark hair and dark eyes.  
  
You falter for a moment, something about his gaze making it hard to speak.  
  
You say, “I’m sorry.”  
  
He’s still gazing.  
  
“I’m really so fucking sorry, Miles,” You continue. “For what I said to you, for hurting you, shit, even for sending that God-damn email. I’m sorry for everything. I was terrified, but that isn’t an excuse. I hurt you, and I was wrong. I don’t think you’re a monster. I don’t think you would ever hurt me. Miles, I think you might be all I’ve got.”  
  
He inhales sharply. Your hand is still extended. You aren’t quite done yet.  
  
“Miles, I was ready to die knowing no one else understood me, until I met you. But instead of letting you help me or helping you I was too selfish to realise that you’re one of the only people who sees me. I just want you to know that, whatever happens, whatever bullshit I said to you a week ago, I see you too.”  
  
You force yourself to look at him. He's chewing his bottom lip. Is that good?  
  
“Basically,” you say, voice shaking, relieved to finally find a way to end this, “my name is Waylon Park. And without you, I’m really fucking lonely.”  
  
You’re _such_ a sucker for dark hair and dark eyes.  
  
  
He takes your hand at last. He shakes it.  
  
  
“My name is Miles Upshur,” he says. “And before you, so was I.” 

  
The weight in your bones lifts.   
  
You exhale with a loud _whoosh_ and put your head in both hands. You hear him laugh softly, feel his hand on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. You don’t shy away. He rubs your back, still laughing, almost like a hiccup. He pulls you into his side, into his scent of vanilla and tobacco. You keep focussing on your breathing, trembling a little bit, so relieved you melt like wax into his warmth. You could weep.  
  
  
“Hey,” he says, “you okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” you respond. “Yeah, it’s just been a hell of a week.”  
  
  
He chuckles again.  
  
When you turn your head back to look at him, see him hurriedly wiping both eyes, you could swear that the bulbs above you have started to glow pink.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I just wanna relate to you in a true way.  
> If it means being here with you,  
> Then hey, I am trying to be.
> 
> I'll always struggle to think of you in a harsh way.  
> I know that it's weird,  
> But I still see you for the human beneath.' 
> 
> \- Gang of Youths, Keep Me In the Open 
> 
> Firstly, listen to that song bc it really beats my ass with how quietly hopeful it is.
> 
> Secondly:
> 
> https://miless-upshur.tumblr.com/post/620679897472499712/my-name-is-waylon-park-and-without-you-im  
> A beautiful friend drew some beautiful art for this chapter !!!! Go give him some attention it’s seriously so gorgeous, I’m floored. 
> 
> Thirdly, thank u again to people who've been reading and leaving such nice comments and kudos!!!!!!!!!!!! I love hearing ur opinions!!!! 
> 
> bye!


	8. i don't blame you for losing your mind (so did i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and how the mighty Icarus laments his fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank u everyone for leaving such wonderful comments, I'm so happy that this fic has been evoking some very visceral reactions outta y'all lol. It's very inspiring for me to read.
> 
> Highly recommend listening to "Slipped" by The National during this one. That song doesn't even warm up to it it just comes right for ur heart. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: descriptions of blood and distressing in-game sequence.

And so, Miles comes home. 

  
He had gone, initially, to collect his things from the motel he’d been staying at this past week. You answer the knock on the front door when it comes to see him standing there, holding a small bag and wearing whatever clothes did not fit within it. He gives you a lop-sided smile.  
  
He follows you through the front door with an air of nervousness, something that looks so strange on him, like an ill-fitting jacket. Seeing him back inside the house just looks right, makes you feel a little lighter.  
  
“Good to have you back,” you say.  
  
“Good to be back,” he replies, formulaically.  
  
  
You sit down on the lounge, pat the spot next to you. He joins you, setting his bag on the ground, and for the first time you want to talk only about Miles, about what’s happening with him right now. You want to know him. 

  
When you tell him this he sniffs, amused, lip quirking. “Trying to get up on the journalist bandwagon are we?” 

“No!” You say. “I just want us to be honest with each other from now on.”  
  
Miles rolls his eyes and says, “Alright, fine. I’m open. Ask me anything.”  
  
You ask him about the swarm. 

  
“Thought you’d start with that,” he grunts.  
  
The swarm, Miles explains, walks a fine line separating beneficial robo-parasite from lycanthropy. He describes it as a second consciousness inhabiting the same body, almost a demonic possession, but it’s him who is in the driver’s seat calling the shots. It’s him who gets to decide what the body does. Until it isn’t.  
  
You are quite confused.  
  
“Uh,” he says, “I didn’t think this’d be so hard to talk about. Basically it’s like…like i’m always trying real hard not to zone out, because when I zone out the other guy takes over and suddenly my body is killing someone while I watch as if from a distance.”  
  
“Oh,” you say. “Okay.”  
  
He continues, “It’s _exhausting_. I had enough fuckin’ trouble taking care of one consciousness and now I gotta keep track of _two_ of them? Didn’t sign up for this shit at all.”  
  
  
You ask him about his effect on the lights. He says he isn’t really sure why every electrical appliance goes bonkers depending on his mood, but he hates it. Thinks it’s bullshit that he can’t even feel things privately anymore. You tell him you think it’s kind of cool, and are unnecessarily proud of yourself when that makes him laugh.  
  
“Real nice of you,” he says, blinking at you in a pleasant way. “Makes everything better.”  
  
“I just wanted to cheer you up a little! I’d do the same for any of my friends.”  
  
“Aw. Do you consider you and I to be friends?!”  
  
“Yes! Of course I—I… Do you _not_?”  
  
He grins. “Of course I do, Way. I’m just surprised _you_ said it.”  
  
You, wrestling down the joy of being referred to by a nickname, inquire, “Why do you think the swarm chose you as its host?”  
  
The smirk drops from his face. 

  
He narrows one eye. “Question: you still haven’t seen the shit I uploaded, have you?”  
  
Apologetically, you admit that this is the case.  
  
“Good,” he replies, which surprises you. “Because I wanna show you what really happened.”  
  
Your fists clench.  
  
He leans off the couch and pulls out his laptop from the bag he placed beside it earlier. He changes positions to sit in front of you on the floor rather than beside you, which confuses you for a second until you realise he’s doing that so you can see the screen better.  
  
He talks over his shoulder, his eyes glued to the laptop.  
  
“I was under strict FBI orders to edit what footage I got from inside the fuckhouse before uploading,” Miles says. He clicks through several folders. “My guy, Hammond, said it wouldn’t be a good look for this shit to go public.”  
  
He twists where he sits and looks at you. Glances down to your white knuckles, hands still balled into fists, then back up to your face.  
  
“Hey,” he says, “you alright?”  
  
“Sure!” you squeak, and immediately want to slap yourself in the face for the way your voice sounds. “I just— I don’t think I’ve watched _anything_ taken from inside the asylum.”  
  
“Not even your own footage?”  
  
“Absolutely not!”  
  
  
Miles’ brow furrows, and after a moment he says, “Okay. I’m just going to show you the last few minutes. If at any point you can’t handle it, just let me know, yeah? I’ll turn it straight off.”  
  
You gulp, but he’s looking at you with such concern that you nod. “Yeah, okay. I’m going to have to watch it sometime.”  
  
He offers you a small smile.  
  
He clicks open a video file and fast forwards until there are a little over four minutes left in the footage. He looks back at you again, waiting for an all clear. You give him a shaky thumbs up. He presses play.  
  
  
You are caught off guard by the sudden tearing-metal sound that blasts from Miles’ laptop speakers. On the screen you see a palm slam down, overriding the Engine’s life support. You hear Miles’ heavy breaths as he turns the camera towards the glass sphere that you see contains Billy Hope. The man in the sphere heaves and jerks about as he drowns in his own blood.  
Not even a second later Miles is thrown forward and the camera clatters to the ground. Out of sight you can hear him screaming, the Walrider howling like a wounded animal, rapidly changing in volume as they get further away from the camera.  
  
The animalistic noises stop and something heavy drops to the ground with the sharp crack of bones. The pained cry that follows this lets you know that it’s Miles who fell.  
  
Your jaw drops.  
  
The camera is picked up again. For a second, Miles turns it toward himself, squinting as if to inspect damage. His face is onscreen for almost no time at all and still you can see the man has been dragged through hell, his face encrusted in filth, eyes twitching, rolling. You almost look away.  
  
  
“This is where I cut it off in the public version,” the Miles sitting in front of you says. “Everything you’re about to see from here on is… classified, I guess.”  
  
You watch as the Miles in the footage starts to move toward the exit. You want to block your ears. He is groaning, gasping, sobbing, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. And still, he keeps moving. Dragging himself up the staircase by the railing, stumbling at the top but never falling. Limping, limping, limping all the way to the finish line.  
  
He is almost at the doors when they swing open. Wernicke appears, his wheelchair flanked on all sides by soldiers with their assault rifles drawn and pointing right toward the camera.  
  
“What!” you shout.  
  
Miles lifts one hand, palm extended toward the assailants, a surrender. In an ominous moment of silence you hear him whimper.  
  
The soldiers begin their fire. The camera clatters to the ground. Miles follows it shortly and lands just in view, his head turned right to the lens, gaping like a fish as blood and spittle gurgle from his lips. He goes very still.  
  
“Holy fuck,” you whisper. “Oh Jesus, oh _fuck_ , Miles.”  
  
And then his eyes snap to black and he lifts his head as if pulled from a nightmare, his mouth still open, body jerking off the ground as if pulled by strings.  
  
  
“ _Gott im himmel,_ ” you hear from some distance away. “ _You_ have become the host.”  
  
Then the camera skitters across the floor and all you see on the screen is a blur. Everything goes black. You hear the sound of a million flies, the shrieking of man and swarm, the tearing of flesh and breaking of bones. Gun exploding like fireworks, powerless. The Walrider howls and you can’t tell if it is anguished or enraged.  
  
The video ends.  
  
Miles closes the laptop. He lets out a loud breath. Glances at you over his shoulder.  
  
You can’t get his eyes out of your head. Dead, glazed over, turning to ink as easy as blinking.  
  
  
“Oh my God?” is all you say.  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees.  
  
“You _died_? They actually killed you in there? You— are you _dead_?”  
  
Mouth set in a tight line, he says, “Kinda.”  
  
“What—”  
  
“The swarm acted as a lifeline. Still does, most of the time. My body got shot to shit at Mount Massive but it must have fused with my brain just in time because I’m still here, and I was still _there_. I didn’t understand what was happening at first, ‘cos why the fuck would I? I just knew I was so fuckin’ angry and the fuckers holding guns needed to go. I wasn’t in control of it at that point, but even if I was…”  
  
“Eye for an eye,” you offer, unhelpfully.  
  
“Uh, yeah sure. Anyway that’s… that’s my origin story done, I guess. The swarm chose me ‘cos I was the best option, and ‘cos I couldn’t have fought it off even if I wanted to.”  
  
  
Every time you blink you see Miles’ head jerking off the ground as the life is forced back into his body, the blood spraying from his open mouth. 

  
You keep one eye on him. He has been chewing on his bottom lip since the video ended and has gnawed it to the point you begin to see the telltale glisten of fresh blood. You don’t know if it’s your place to tell him to stop. Instead you lean over and put a hand on his shoulder. Briefly, he touches his fingers to yours.  
  
“What does it feel like, turning into the swarm?” You ask.  
  
“You’re really making me sound like a fuckin’ werewolf: usually _I_ don’t _turn into_ anything. The nanites mostly just hang out under my skin then pop out and do whatever the hell they want to based on my mood.”  
  
“But,” you try, “what was that the other night?”  
  
“Ah,” he says. “Okay. _That_ was the aftermath of letting the other consciousness control everything for a bit - letting the Walrider come out in all its fucked up glory. I _guess_ you could count that as ‘turning into it’, because the body stops being mine. That’s why I looked and acted, y’know, not like myself _._ ” _  
  
_Understatement, you think.  
  
Miles continues, “I don’t know what brought me back that night, honestly. The longer I leave the swarm in the driver’s seat, the harder it is to control myself when I come back. It’s already strong enough to fuck around with the lights, as hard as I try not to. I’ve never found a way to come back from letting it go Full Walrider that wasn’t just riding it out. Ha! Excuse the pun.”  
  
You nod, pretending to understand.  
  
“Really, I only let the Walrider out when I’m in severe danger, and I promise you, I was the other night. This thing I’ve got in me is fuckin’ dangerous, Way. You’ve got idea what it feels like to watch your own hands rip the shit out of someone while having no control over it.”  
  
“You’re right,” you say. “I definitely don’t know that feeling.”  
  
You gnaw the inside of your lip.  
  
“So…you go Full Walrider whenever you’re hunting down the Murkoff agents, right? Kind of like you and it are assassins for the FBI.”  
  
  
Miles starts to nod but stops and raises one eyebrow at you, slowly.  
  
“How do _you_ know about that?” He asks.  
  
_Oh shit,_ you think.  
  
You consider making up some excuse. The FBI told you, you could say. Maybe Miles let it slip while drunk. Maybe it was all revealed to you in a dream. 

Begrudgingly, you take the high road. You’re getting sick of the high road.  
  
  
“I,” you admit, “may or may not have read your journal when you were gone.”  
  
He barks a laugh. “You _what_? Holy fuck, and I thought _I_ was a nosy fucker!”  
  
“I’m sorry!” you say. You sound like a child. “It was just _there_ and I got curious so I started reading and—”  
  
“Why were you in my room, Park?”  
  
“I—you left the light on?”  
  
He starts cackling, eyes crinkling at the edges, staring up at you incredulously. “Oh my _God_ you— Is that step one of the turning-off process? Do lights usually stay on until you read someone’s journal?”  
  
  
You put your head in your hands. And to think you actually missed this guy.  
  
  
He snorts and reaches up to give you a shove. “I’m messin’ with you, fuckstick. I don’t care that you’re a little rat. But to answer your question: yes. You _could_ consider us an assassin for the FBI. Certainly sounds a lot cooler than the truth.”  
  
You’re looking at him again.  
  
“The truth?” you question. “What do you mean by that?”  
  
  
For the second time that night you watch the grin drop from his face, a caterpillar falling from its leaf. He bites his bottom lip. You pretend you don’t notice the lights’ gentle flickering as you wait for him to speak.  
  
  
“You didn’t pick up on it from my journal? The one you read while I was away?”  
  
“Miles _shut up._ But no, I didn’t. What’s the truth?”  
  
He sighs, deeply.  
  
“Man, I _hate_ talking about this,” he mutters. “Okay. Let’s just get this outta the way. So, y’know how I told you that the swarm acted as my lifeline back in the asylum?”  
  
You nod.  
  
“Cool. Well, it worked both ways, at first: it kept the body moving and I gave it a place to live. But I just couldn’t give it the same conditions as in the asylum. Billy Hope was able to keep the swarm running so well, and not just because he was being subject to constant trauma in the Engine; the kid was alive, the Walrider alive with him. The swarm didn’t need to waste any nanites on keeping _him_ together.”  
  
He glances at you, checks if you’re following. You beckon him to go on.  
  
“The swarm feeds off of whatever horror its host experiences, or has experienced. The more trauma it gets the better it feels. What happened to me in the asylum was enough to keep the swarm sated for a while, but…” Miles trails off.  
  
“But what?” You press. “What’s happening now?”  
  
“Waylon, the nanites weren’t created to keep a dead body alive.”  
  
Once again you find yourself thinking, _shit_.  
  
“What do you mean?” You ask, but you get the sinking feeling in your very soul that always precedes bad news.  
  
“I’m not enough to feed it,” he says, “and it isn’t enough to keep me alive. Not when it’s wasting so much of itself just to keep me moving. The swarm’s a shit parasite, I’m a shit host, and eventually we’re gonna run each other straight into the ground.”  
  
Miles pauses for a long time.  
  
You cock your head, a dog hearing an unfamiliar noise, feigning obliviousness. You think you know what he is going to say next.  
  
  
It doesn’t stop your heart from dropping when he tells you, “We're dying, Waylon. Me and the swarm.”  
  
  
In that moment you are transported back in time to when a close friend comes to you in their anguish and confides in you that their partner is sick, and things are looking bad. You try to reach out your hand. You want to say that you will be there for them through this, that you are so sorry, that these things are awful and life is so unfair, but everything fizzles and dies in your throat. All you can do is be there. And maybe, eventually, your presence will be enough.  
  
  
You squeeze your eyes shut and when you reopen them, you are back in the present. Miles is peering at you, his face a mask. You take a deep breath. Prepare yourself to once again comfort a friend running out of time.  
  
“Miles,” you murmur, “that’s awful.”  
  
You can’t think of anything better to say.  
  
Thankfully, he can.  
  
“Hammond and a bunch of the other agents have been meeting up with me every week since we came here to run physical tests, and they’ve basically confirmed it: I’m on my way out. Unless they can figure out a way to jumpstart my heart, or lessen the physical stress caused by hosting millions of tiny robots.” He rubs the bridge of his nose fiercely. “It’s fucked. It’s so fucked up. And you know what else? They pretty much told me they’re not gonna bother looking into it until I take down Murkoff for them.”  
  
Your mouth falls open.  
  
“So if you don’t take out the Murkoff agents for the FBI, they’ll just…?”  
  
“Let me rot?” Miles bites down on his bottom lip, hard. “Yeah. Yeah they’re gonna fuckin’ let me rot.”  
  
  
You finally dare to ask him about his nosebleeds, his insomnia, his inability to maintain weight. He confirms they are symptoms of the swarm. Symptoms of dying. He is breaking, rotting slowly, and there isn’t anything he can do. You don’t know how he can talk about this stuff without screaming. It’s unfair. It’s so unfair.  
  
  
“They’ll find a cure,” you say. “They have to.”  
  
A useless statement.  
  
“What are you feeling?” you ask, a useless question.  
  
He doesn’t seem to mind.  
  
“Everything,” he says. “Angry, depressed, manic. Like I’m a fucking moron.”  
  
You frown. “Why do you feel like a moron?”  
  
“Because I could’ve stopped myself getting into this situation. It’s my own fault for thinking I was invincible, thinking I’d be able to take down Murkoff and the asylum all by myself armed with nothing but a stupid camera. I was... I was obsessed, overconfident, a real moron for not once trying to leave, just so set on the idea that I would be the one to have the glory of exposing it all." He grits his teeth. "I ignored every sign, every warning, and when I flew too close to the goddamn sun I had the fucking audacity to wonder why I was suddenly plummeting to the ground.”  
  
A version of Miles springs to your mind. Wings of wax and feathers fan out behind him, scorching in the heat of the sun, turning to ash, sending him hurtling down, down…  
  
When you whisper, “You think your pride was your downfall,” it is more of a realisation than a question.  
  
He says, “It was. I know it was.”  
  
A heavy pause. You dwell on the imagery he has created for you.  
  
He speaks up again, “You know, I was on antidepressants before all of this shit, even before the asylum—” he glances at you as if expecting you to have some adverse reaction to this, “—but Hammond took me off them. Said that taking meds was just another way to speed up the swarm’s deterioration, though I dunno if that was him bullshitting or not. And I was fine to stop, at first. Was getting sick of them, sick of feeling like the colour beige, feeling like _nothing_ all the time; even if that meant my meds were, y’know, _working_.”  
  
You’re stunned to silence.  
  
He puts his face in one hand.  
  
“I’d give anything to feel beige again,” he murmurs.  
  
The buzz of the lights has increased, alerting you that he may be getting overwhelmed. For lack of anything better to do, you wriggle down the couch and come to sit next to him on the floor, both of you leaning back against the seat. You’re quiet, the reality of the situation sinking in more with each passing second.  
  
  
“I’m so sorry,” you say.  
  
He looks at you, confused.  
  
“I’m the reason you came to the asylum,” you continue. “I’m the reason you’re in this situation, the reason you _died_. And I’m sorry. I should never have emailed you - I _knew_ that if you came, you would be in danger, and I still sent it. I still said those awful things to you when I found out you were the host. I have been so incredibly selfish and I would not blame you if you never forgave me for it.”  
  
Miles knocks you in the arm with his fist, not gently. You don’t know how the grin stays so firmly on his face. You start to consider it might be painted on.  
  
“Hey,” he says, “shut up! Enough of this guilt shit, man. _You_ didn’t cut off my fingers or shoot me to fuckin’ pieces. Stop tryna take all the credit for shit directly caused by Murkoff! Besides, I would’ve turned up at that shithole sooner or later.”   
  
  
Sitting next to him, you’ve noticed that his hands and shoulders are shaking. Have been for some time.  
  
  
“Do you think you can forgive me?” You ask.  
  
“I already have,” he replies. “For bringing me there, and for everything you said the other week.”  
  
A weight lifts in your ribcage.  
  
“Thank you,” you say. “Seriously, thank you for that.”  
  
“I really don’t blame you for losing your mind,” he replies with a shrug. “I mean, so did I. God knows I did.” He pokes your arm with his middle finger. “Besides, I think you’ve gone through enough shit to make up for sending an email. Bit fucked in the head, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yeah,” you say.  
  
“What else?”  
  
“What else..?”  
  
“What other shit is going on with you? C’mon, I told you a bunch of my stuff. Your turn.”  
  
You don’t have to think for very long.  
  
“Wh— um, well, my wife left me just a month after I got home, and I’m fairly certain she moved on even before we ‘died’. And…um, usually I need to give myself positive self-talk in the mirror before I can muster up the courage to even take a shower. The idea of sex is terrifying and it’s been so much time since I was intimate with somebody that I can’t even remember why I used to like it so much.”  
You have _no_ idea why you are telling him this, but you keep going. “I feel like my entire brain has been rewired the wrong way and now it’ll never experience life the way it used to. I don’t have control over a single damn thing anymore. I’m just _here_ , and I don’t even know what for. You’ve got the Murkoff agents to take down, so I guess you at least have something to do, but what the hell do I do? Nothing. Sometimes I feel like I can’t do anything with myself except sit here waiting for it to end.”  
  
Miles snorts.  
  
“Been there,” he grunts. “ _Am_ there.”  
  
  
Neither of you say anything. You sit on the floor in front of the couch, shoulders touching when you breathe in. You can’t tell if it’s comfortable.  
  
  
“Sorry about your life,” you offer.  
  
“Sorry about yours,” he offers back.  
  
  
You turn to him. “Are you scared?”  
  
You hope he knows what you’re trying to ask.  
  
He says, “Y’know, as cliche as it sounds I don’t I’ve never appreciated being alive more than I did in Mount Massive. It put everything into perspective. I was so afraid of being killed and dying, and I think that’s why I was able to make it as far as I did. Before I knew about my, uh, _second_ _dying situation_ , I was almost happy to be the host ‘cos I didn’t think I would ever have to feel that fear again.”  
  
You aren’t sure what his answer is until he adds, “But it’s not like being inside the asylum this time. I can’t run away from this. The fear of death is still there, it’s just so fucking _there_ , but this time I don’t know what I’m supposed to do except just sit around fucking waiting for the day that my body finally rots for good.”  
  
His dark eyes are shimmering.  
  
“In short, yes,” he says. “I’m fucking terrified.”  
  
So you wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him awkwardly into you, a pathetic attempt to comfort a man running out of time. You give him a squeeze, your other hand cupping the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair. It’s thick, it’s soft, and when it brushes against your jaw you catch the smoke-vanilla smell wafting off him and try not to inhale too deeply in case you get lost in it.  
  
  
“That feels kinda nice,” Miles murmurs.  
  
  
So you keep doing it.  
  
  
You exhale and tell him, “It’s alright, Miles. You’re okay.”  
  
He says, “No the fuck it isn’t and no the fuck I’m not.”  
  
“Yeah,” you agree instantly. “Yeah, this is fucked up.”  
  
  
He starts giggling, a sharp sound, his shoulders shaking with the action, and turns his face into the crook of your neck. Several moments pass and you don’t realise his laughter has turned into crying until it’s gone on long enough for your neck to be damp. You open and close your mouth, listen to him as his facade crumbles to pieces. Icarus has fallen twice, is drowning for a second time, and you haven't the strength to pull him out of the water.  
  
  
You’re not sure what to do. God, you’re never sure what to do.  
  
  
“Oh,” you say uselessly, one hand cupping his cheek in an attempt to lift his face. “Miles…”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” he chokes out. “Please, just don’t fucking mention it.”  
  
  
So you stay quiet and hold the dying man while he weeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I don't need any help to be breakable, believe me.  
> I know nobody else who can laugh along to any kind of joke.
> 
> I won't need any help to be lonely when you leave me.  
> It'll be easy to cover,  
> Gather my skeletons far inside.' 
> 
> \- The National, Slipped 
> 
> :'(
> 
> Thanks for reading ladz
> 
> Hmu on tumblr if you want https://clownhouse.tumblr.com/ . I don't post much Outlast content rn but...maybe someday


	9. The twisted thing he is.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble wastes no opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's long so like watch out 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: blood, depictions of violence. 
> 
> See footnotes for translations of the Italian dialogue :))
> 
> Want the full experience? When Miles says, "Or what?" (about halfway through the chapter) go to 17:38 of this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0CihC-Te15Y and pretend ur Waylon . no spoilers as to why i want u to do this

You’re not one to dwell much on your dreams, not when their meanings can so often be chalked up to trauma. 

  
  
However, recently you’ve been considering that your subconscious is trying to tell you something. 

  
  
You’ve dreamt three times since Miles told you he’s dying, and each time it’s the same. You’re on a beach. You’re alone. You sit down on the shore, watch the waves churn the water. The sun is bright, hot. 

  
  
You know you’re waiting for something to happen but you always wake up before it does. 

  
  
Dotti doesn’t have the answers for you either. She says she’s a therapist, not a psychic - though she can understand why you’d get the two confused. 

  
  
A week passes without you dreaming of the beach and you forget about it.  


* * *

**  
**“Waylon, this isn’t gonna work.”  
 **  
**“Oh, go on, try again,” you say. “Please, I just want to try it.”  
  
He glares at you. “No, fuck you! You’re objectifying me.”  
  
“Wh— _How_?!”  
  
“You’re minimising me to the millions of tiny robots in my blood rather than seeing me for the man I am, Waylon.”  
  
“That isn’t objectification.”  
  
“Well, it hurts my feelings. Also, did I mention this idea is stupid?”  
  
He has indeed mentioned that.  
  
Miles has been home for two weeks and you’re considering kicking him out again. It’s as if the man you held close to you while he cried was a figment of your imagination.  
  
You massage your temples.  
  
“Miles,” you say, “can we _please_ just try again?”  
  
He grumbles something unintelligible. He stops shuffling on the spot and closes his eyes, adopting an expression of extreme concentration. You keep quiet. This is about as far as he got the last three times before he started laughing at nothing or accused you of being too loud.  
  
“This isn’t gonna work,” Miles grunts again, before a sharp buzz alerts you to the swarm as it begins peeling itself from his skin, throwing itself into the air and surrounding him in a smoke. You instinctively shrink back further into the couch. Miles, his eyes closed, raises a brow. The nanites mimic your behaviour and recoil as if stung.

  
  
It takes you a moment to get used to seeing the swarm in a non-violent context. You sit a little straighter and clear your throat.

  
  
“Hi,” you say out loud to it.  
  
Miles, half-hidden by a cloud of bots, snorts. “Wrong approach, Way.”  
  
You think back to what he’d told you about how he communicated with the nanites and close your eyes, too. You ignore the loud hum in the air, the warp-ripple-click of the bots in front of you, and try think only of one word: _hello_.  
  
But you can’t do it. The buzzing only gets louder and you’re unable to clear your mind of it. You open your eyes to see the swarm flying about aimlessly. Miles has started squeezing his eyelids tighter, a sign he’s getting bored. You sigh.  
  
“Maybe this _is_ stupid,” you say.  
  
And with that, the cloud dissolves back into Miles. He rolls his shoulders back, shakes like a dog, claps his hands together. Nanites brush off of him like dust. When he reopens his eyes, they’re still a bit black.  
  
“I’m sure you almost had it,” he says, lip quirking.  
  
You say nothing. You frown.  
  
  
He flops next to you on the couch to lie face up, his legs swung over the armrest on his side, the top of his head brushing your thigh.  
  
“What’s the deal?” He asks. “You can’t just demand to talk to the swarm and not tell me _why._ C’mon; what’s the reason? Don’t be a stranger. Nothing you can say to the bots that you can’t also say to your ol’ pal, Miles.”  
  
You roll your eyes. Ever since you told him that yes, you two were friends, he's been referring to himself as your ‘ol’ pal’ or your ‘best bud’.  
  
“You’re going to laugh at me,” you say, not looking at him. “I thought that if I could talk to the swarm, then… maybe I would be able to help you out a bit.”  
  
Miles sits up and faces you directly.  
  
“Help me with..?” He prompts.  
  
You open your mouth and wince. The stupidity of your own idea dawns on you at last.  
  
  
Miles can apparently read minds because he shakes his head and says, “Waylon, are you fuckin’ ser— You thought you and me were gonna take down Murkoff together? That’s what this is?”  
  
Throwing your hands out, you defend yourself, “I never _do_ anything! You’re out there taking down a whole corporation singlehandedly and I just sit around at home twiddling my thumbs until it’s time for therapy. I want to help you, Miles. I’m not useless.”  
  
“Absolutely not useless, no,” he agrees. “But tryin’ to control the swarm? Tryin’ to help me take out one of the most dangerous organisations on the fucking planet? Jesus, Way. Even I know that’s a stupid idea - and I apparently _only_ have stupid ideas.”  
  
You fold your arms. “Is this a no, then?”  
  
“Yeah it’s a no.”  


  
You honestly aren’t sure what answer you wanted from him and are, therefore, unsure of what you’re supposed to feel in this moment. You decide to feel disappointed. Miles peers at you, trying to read whatever’s going on in your head, and you don’t make it easy on him.  
  
  
“Alright,” you say eventually with a shrug. “That’s fine. You know the swarm better than I ever will, and if you don’t think I will be able to communicate with it then we won’t try anymore.”   
  
“Deal.” Miles stands up, stretches luxuriously.  
  
“Y’know, I think the swarm and I are becoming more and more like each other,” he says, looking down at you. “Wanna hear something cool?”  
  
You open your mouth to say yes but he’s already telling you before you can do it.  
  
“A couple of times - when the swarm wasn’t even active - I was able to float. Only like a foot off the ground, but still! How cool is that?”  
  
“That _is_ cool,” you say, and mean it. “What do you think caused that to happen?”  
  
“If I knew, I’d be doin’ it non stop,” he chirps, then walks away, apparently done with this conversation.  
  
  
You pick up the book you’d left on the coffee table and have just resumed reading when Miles materialises in front of you again.  
  
  
“Come out with me tonight,” he says.  
  
For some reason his invitation gets you tripping and falling over your own words. “Wh— _Out_? Why? Where are you going?”  
  
“I dunno. Anywhere.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea—”  
  
“C’mon Way, you _never_ hang with me outside of the house.” His nose crinkles, a sign he’s about to start being more annoying. “Why are you so ashamed of me? I’m dying, not ugly.”  
  
“I don’t know if you’re allowed to say that. And I have therapy tonight.”  
  
“Tomorrow, then.”

You sigh. “I was going to go for a walk tomorrow night.”  
  
  
Miles snorts. You raise your eyebrows at him.  
  
  
“Sorry?” he asks. “Is this the point we’re at? The point that you start planning your evening walks?”  
  
“Leave me alone! Dotti says I need to give myself things to look forward to.”  
  
“Come out with me after your walk then. Easy. _Two_ things to look forward to.”  
  
“I don’t have the energy to do two different things in the same night.”  
  
“Waylon!” Miles is staring at you incredulously. “How fuckin’ old are you?”  
  
“Very old. I’m going to be forty soon!”  
  
“You— When?”  
  
“In nine years.”  
  
  
Miles’ eyes are slits. You bite your bottom lip to keep from laughing but it’s no use.  
  
  
“ _You’re_ trying to piss _me_ off right now,” he says, “aren’t you? Trying to disrupt the natural order of things?”  
  
“Very much so,” you respond. In a more serious tone you continue, “Look, I don’t know if I’m comfortable going out somewhere where there are a lot of people. Crowds and loud noise makes me anxious. And it doesn’t help that I know Murkoff is out there either.”  
  
He sighs. Kneels next to the couch, props himself up on the armrest by his elbows so his face is in line with yours.  
  
“Hey,” he says, suddenly so gentle. “Y’know I wouldn’t take you anywhere with a fuckton of people, right? I can’t stand crowds, either. Besides, we would be perfectly safe; if you’re worried about Murkoff, it’s always been me finding them, not the other way around. They’re nothing but a bunch of dumb fuckers.”  
  
“But what if—”

He doesn’t even need to say anything to cut you off; he just rests his cheek against his hand, gazing, waiting so intently for you to finish that you forget what you were talking about. You falter and shut your mouth.  
  
“We’ll be fine,” he says. “You’ve been so careful for so long, don’t you think it’s time you loosened up a bit? We’re just gonna go someplace chill and quiet. And I promise, I’ll kick the shit out of anyone who bothers you.”  
  
You feel like he’d do a lot more than just kick the shit out of them.  
  
His demeanour then switches from caring friend to high school bully so fast you almost get whiplash.  
  
“C’mon, pussy,” he says, reaching over and shoving your shoulder. “Boys’ night out.”  
  
You duck out of the way when he tries to shove you again, “Oh my God, _okay_ , Miles! If Dotti says it’s okay then I’ll come out with you tomorrow night.”  
  
  
Miles throws a victorious punch into the air. You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone like him and you genuinely aren’t sure if that’s a good thing.  


* * *

  
  
You ask Dotti if it’s fine for you to go out tomorrow night with Miles. She laughs at you and reminds you that a) you’re not her son and b) you can do whatever you want because you are a grown man.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” you say.  
  
  


* * *

  
**  
**Boys’ Night rolls around.  
  
(The name was Miles’ idea, obviously, and it won’t leave your head)  


You come out of your bedroom dressed in the nicest outfit you could pull together from your decidedly uninteresting wardrobe: a chunky yellow sweater layered over your staple black turtleneck, black pants, and you’ve even cracked out the boots. It took you maybe a full hour to decide but you’ve chosen not to wear contacts tonight in favour of your glasses. You think you’ve found a good balance between looking nice and looking far too geeky for anybody to want to hit on. 

  
  
Miles is waiting in the living room for you. He stands up when he sees you and cups his hands to his mouth dramatically, and adopts the tone of a teen heartthrob when he says, “ _Wow,_ Waylon. You look…you look _great._ ”  
  
You open your mouth with the intention of carrying on the joke but you haven’t seen enough romance movies to know anything funny to say, so you just stand there gawping at him for several seconds in silence. This still cracks him up. Success.  


  
He looks very good, you think begrudgingly. He isn’t wearing his leather jacket for once, replacing it with a beautifully designed black coat that comes to his knees. He’s wearing tighter jeans than usual and for the first time you notice that the man’s body is mostly leg.

  
  
He marches past and opens the front door for you.  
  
“Such a gentleman,” you say as you pass him.  
  
He laughs again.  
  


* * *

  
  
It had honestly started out quite fine.  
  
Miles’ had taken you to one of his supposed favourite haunts a couple of blocks away. When you arrived it had been mostly empty with very dim lights. The music playing through the speakers had been soft. Lots of acoustic guitars and easy piano licks. After some convincing, Miles bought the two of you drinks and you had clinked your glasses and felt like maybe this was a great idea after all.  
  
You drink, you talk, you consider asking him where he got that coat. Above all, you enjoy yourself.  
  
And then, as if in the blink of an eye, the environment wasn’t so ideal.  
  
You turn in your stool and almost fall out of it. The bar is _packed_. You can’t even see the front door through the heaving mass of people in the middle of the room. The music overhead has changed into heavy bass. You have no idea how it’s gotten this busy without you realising.  
  
You frown.  
  
“Miles,” you say, “what day is it today?”  
  
He blinks and goes to pull your glass away from you. “Maybe you’ve had enough to drink—”  
  
“ _No_ ,” you huff. “ _I_ know what day it is. I’m asking to check if _you_ do. Because you’ve brought us to what is obviously a nightclub on a _Friday night._ ”  
  
For once he has nothing to say.  
  
You sip your beer aggressively. “So much for a quiet night out.”  
  
You both do nothing but finish your drinks for a while. Miles drums his fingers on the counter. He keeps whipping his head around to look behind him. Seeing him so uncomfortable fills you with a nasty kind of relief.  
  
  
“In my defence,” he says, “I’ve only ever come here on Tuesday nights before.”  
  
“Mm,” you say.  
  
“This is so many people, what the fuck? Must be an event on. The whole town of Ravello is here.”  
  
“Uh huh,” you say again. The music is too loud.  
  
“I mean,” Miles coughs. “This…isn’t _that_ bad.”  
  
It _is_ that bad. You say nothing, swishing your beer around in its glass as if it is the most fascinating thing on earth. Your ears hurt.  
  
  
Miles continues taking in your surroundings. He fixates on one point over your head for a couple of seconds, then shoves you to get your attention. You almost spill your drink.  
 **  
**“That guy over there is staring at you,” he says.  
  
You start and whip around on your stool. “Is he? Who? Shit, where is—?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” he says, and laughs. “Not in a _bad_ way, dipshit. See? That guy there…”  
  
  
He puts a hand to the back of your head softly, his fingers warm in your hair, and turns you to face the right direction. There is indeed a handsome man already looking at you from across the bar. He’s broad with dark skin and a thick beard. You meet his eyes and he tongues at the straw sticking out of his cocktail, chewing on the tip.  
  
  
“Wow,” Miles says behind you. “He’s _hot_.”  
  
You can’t look away fast enough. Your shoulders are stiff as a board.  
  
“What are you _doing_ sittin’ with me?” Miles asks, nudging you again. “Go get him.”  
 **  
**Your mouth opens and closes. “Uh. No?”  
  
Miles sighs dramatically. “Oh, right. I forgot you were straight. Fuckin’ waste of—”  
 **  
**“I’m _not_ straight!” You snap. “I just don’t want to fucking talk to him, okay?”

**  
  
**Miles’ eyebrows shoot up. At first you think it’s because you swore. Then, you realise that this moment could be considered you coming out to him and you regret saying anything.

  
  
“Hey man,” Miles says, “I don’t mind if you wanna bring someone back home! I’m a _cool_ roommate. You can have sex with people inside the house if you want. I won’t even mind.”  
 **  
**“Christ,” you mutter, staring into your drink.  
  
“I’m serious. When was the last time you got laid?”  
  
Your skin starts to feel cold. Why is he still talking about sex? How do you make him stop talking to you about sex?  
  
“That guy’s obviously into the whole soft librarian thing you have going on.”  
  
Over Miles’ yapping, over the loud music and chatter of the club, a voice in the back of your head whispers, “ _You have amazing bone structure. Such soft skin. You’re going to be_ beautiful _.”_  
 _  
_Your stomach churns. _Fuck.  
  
_ You can’t do this here. You have to get _him_ out of your head. You focus on Miles’ voice, shutting your eyes tightly. You can’t do this, you can’t do this, you can’t do this.  
  
“ _You’re ugly and you’ve given up on love.”_  
  
“Shut up,” you whisper at your brain.  
  
“I reckon he— Huh? What’s up?”  
  
You can’t hear Gluskin’s voice anymore. Just Miles, just ambient chatter, just music, just laughter. Your heart is pounding.  
  
  
“What’d you say?” Miles asks.  
 _  
_“Seriously, Miles,” you say, louder this time. You open your eyes. “Just shut up.”  
  
He winces as if you shouted at him.  
  
“Okay,” he says. He furrows his brow. “Are you alright?”  
  
You scrape back out of your stool and stand up.  
  
“I just need some air,” you announce.  
  
“Do you want me to come with you?”  
  
“No, thank you. I’ll be a couple of minutes.”  
  
You leave him, then, weaving through the throng of people to the back of the club where you find an unlocked door that leads you out into a back alley. Must be the venue’s smoking area. Apart from several dumpsters and big sacks of garbage, it’s completely empty. You walk to the other end, far from the door, far from the entrance to the street. **  
**

Your whole body is shaking like a leaf.  
  
You thought you were better than this. You thought you had progressed beyond hearing things.

  
The laughter and noise from inside is taunting you. You take deep breaths, bent over with your hands on your knees, treating your body as if it has run a marathon and not just existed in a room full of people for less than twenty minutes.  
  
You don’t know why you thought you could handle this. You’re still afraid, you’re still weak, you’re still _you_. And _you_ are no longer the kind of person who gets to live their life the right way.  
  
“Shit,” you breathe. “God, what the _fuck_ is wrong with me?”  
  
There is no response from God. The music continues pumping inside, sounding so distant.  
  
You straighten up, make the decision to go back inside. Get in there and brave the crowds, if only to tell Miles that you have had quite enough of meeting new people for one day. You are about to turn around when you hear the door opening. Miles must have followed you out. You hear him approaching you.  
  
“Sorry,” you grunt, rubbing your eyes. “I’m fine now. I’m sorry for freaking out. Can we go home?”  
  
But then the person behind you says, “Waylon Park?” and their voice is deeply unfamiliar.  
 _  
_The back of your neck prickles.  
  
You haven’t even had time to turn around when you are grabbed by the hair and yanked harshly to one side, yelping like a kicked animal as your head smacks against the wall. Your arm is twisted painfully behind your back, your face pushed into the brick. Two different voices are shouting at you in Italian, so fast you don’t catch a word, and you are about to struggle to break free when you hear the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. You freeze. The person holding you lets go.  
  
“ _Mani in vista._ ” They snarl. “ _Nienti movimenti improvvisi._ ”  
  
You raise your trembling hands and place them against the wall, your forehead still pressed to the brick. You stare down at your shoes and hold still. Your breath comes out shallow.

  
The more distant voice, accent so thick you can hardly understand them, asks, “Waylon Park? You are Waylon Park?”  
  
You can’t think of anything smarter to do right now, so you nod. A compliant little coward until the end.  
  
The assailant closest to you grips your shoulder and spins you around, finally revealing that that you are cornered by two heavily-armed men dressed all in black, the chunky outlines of bulletproof vests apparent underneath their shirts. The man holding you is tanned with thick black hair and eyebrows, and an arm pressed hard against your throat. The other is very pale and you don’t notice much else about him because he has his gun trained on you. You don’t need to hear it said to know that both of these men are soldiers for Murkoff.  
  
If possible, your heart drops further. You keep your hands where they can see.  
  
“ _Per favore_ ,” you try, your voice little more than a whine over the muffled music coming from inside. “ _N-…Non lo s-so—_ “  
  
The dark-haired soldier punches you square in the stomach, winding you. Your body starts to crumple to the ground and he keeps you up, holding you by your shoulders. He draws one arm back, fist hovering. A threat.  
  
He leans in, hot breath blasting your face. “ _Dov’è?”  
_  
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t know where.” Your voice sounds tiny. You struggle to get the words out. “Uhh… _Non lo so dove—”  
  
_ You cut off as he hits you in the stomach again, your breath tearing at your chest. Your glasses drop from your face and you hear them crack somewhere below.  
  
“ _Dov’è?_!” The man bellows, punctuating every word by shaking you. “ _Ci dica dov e’!”_

  
“I don’t _kno-ow_ ,” you gasp out. “I don’t know wh-where it is!”  
  
You make the mistake of grabbing the man by his wrists in a weak attempt to stop the shaking. He retaliates by slamming your back against the wall behind you while the paler soldier starts yelling so rapidly that you don’t catch a word, and steps forward until the muzzle of his gun is pointed to your throat. You shut your eyes, unable to look at them anymore as they continue to shout. An arm presses against your windpipe. You wait for the pale man to pull the trigger.

  
  
Over the commotion of the two soldiers and the thumping of your heart rises a familiar voice.  


“Hey!”  
  
You open your eyes.  
  
Miles stands at the alleyway entrance, a distant silhouette against the orange street. You can hardly see him in the dim light. He doesn’t sound happy.  
  
“What’s going on down there?” he asks, voice raised. 

  
  
The first Murkoff agent pushes his arm harder against your neck while the other spins around to point his weapon at Miles. The pale man says, “ _Questo non ti reguarda, signor._ Not one more step!”  
  
Miles takes a single step forward. Cocks his head slowly to one side.  
  
“Or what?” He asks. He’s still shouting to be heard.  
  
The dark-haired soldier yanks you away from the wall only to shove you back into it, knocking your head hard against the bricks. You yelp. The agent drops you to face Miles and you find yourself collapsing. Your ears are ringing. The synth line pumping from inside sounds familiar. You touch the back of your head and your hand comes away bloody. You open your mouth, try to say something, forget how to.  
  
Both Murkoff soldiers have their weapons trained on Miles now. You are dizzy, aware that they are shouting at him, hurling threats and orders to remain where he is in rapid Italian, though you can’t make out what he’s saying back or if he’s even speaking. Blood seeps into the back of your collar, damp in your hair, your head lolling onto your shoulder. For some reason your brain decides now is the time to let you know that the muffled song you hear playing inside the club is by Justin Timberlake. Everything is blurry.  
  
Miles’ voice once again rises above the commotion.  
  
“Put your fucking guns down.”  
  
There’s a crackling in the air, a deep hum. You know what’s coming next. You don’t want it. Nausea churns your belly. 

Miles continues to approach, dangerously calm, the single light in the alley flickering on and off. Tendrils of wispy black peel off his body and curl into the air. His head jerks back. You don’t think you can watch this. The dampness of your collar is uncomfortable. The fact that you can clearly hear people singing along to the song inside doesn’t help.  
  
The pale soldier opens fire and Miles explodes into a whirlwind of smoke. Shrieking, howling, the swarm tearing out of him like four extra limbs. In a split second he turns from man to something incomprehensible. The assault rifle is ripped from the soldier’s hands and thrown elsewhere. The man starts screaming, the Walrider starts screaming, the air itself seems to erupt, and for some reason your main concern is that you are about to watch two men be torn to shreds while listening to a muffled ‘ _SexyBack’_. Your head throbs and you squeeze your eyes shut in a wince, just for a second, hearing the thump of something hitting the ground. When you reopen them the Walrider is standing between you and the soldiers. Its arms are held out from its sides, claws shimmering with blood.  
  
You notice with increasing dread that it doesn’t resemble Miles at all. _Full Walrider._ The soldier’s blood falls from its fingers, collecting in a neat puddle.  
  
“Miles,” you try to say. All that comes out is a groan, unheard above the roaring ocean in your skull.  
  
The pale soldier is picking himself off the ground, his face half-shredded. He lifts his right arm, stares in horror at the oozing stump where his elbow should be. The rest of his arm lies to one side, its fingers still twitching. The rifle has been torn to pieces.  
  
The dark-haired man has his gun trained on the Walrider and appears unharmed. Both of them are wide-eyed. You wonder if they’ve realised they are about to die.

  
The rifle goes off. The Walrider shrieks. It tears forward, twists around the soldier in a dark cloud, lifts him off the ground as he drops his gun and wails. You hear people inside - the song still playing obnoxiously - begin to panic, the noise from out here having reached them by now. 

  
A black tendril shatters the Murkoff agent’s rifle like glass. Your head falls back, face turned upwards. The walls and sliver of sky seem to shift and disappear and when your eyes focus you are inside the asylum staring up in horror as the Walrider rips Jeremy Blaire to shreds.  
  
You can’t watch, you can’t watch, you can’t watch this again.  
  
The man is thrown about in mid air, screaming the whole time. The swarm buzzes and crackles like lightning. There’s a stampede inside. Everything is so loud, too fucking loud. You clamp your hands over your ears and bury your face between your knees. You can’t watch you can’t watch.  
  
A word cuts through the fog in your brain like a ship through turbulent water:  
 _Stop!  
  
_ There is a heavy thud-crack as the solder falls out of the air and snaps his leg on impact, his pained howl startling you into looking up. The Walrider drops onto the ground and spins to turn its featureless face upon you. Your eyes water. You don’t want to see anyone die. You want Miles back so bad it hurts.  
  
For some reason, the word, _Stopped,_ pops into your head. It startles you.  
  
And then it’s _Miles_ who is looking down at you, his mouth open, chest heaving, blood wrapping around his arms in ribbons. His eyes are still black, surrounded by a thin layer of nanites.  
  
You find your tongue again.  
  
“Please,” you whimper. “I can’t watch. I can’t watch you kill them.”  
  
The voice that comes out of his mouth doesn’t belong to him. It scrapes down your spine like cold fingers, sending a chill to your bones.  
  
“ _We’re going to_ ,” it says. “ _We need to_.”  
  
Black blood starts dribbling out of his nose, his eyes, the corners of his lips.  
  
“ _We want to kill them_ ,” The Miles-thing says, robotically.  
  
“Don’t,” you beg. “I can’t…”  
  
The soldiers are both on the ground still, one holding his shattered leg, the other pressed against the wall with his own disembodied arm in his lap. Groaning, blood everywhere. In the distance, over the commotion from indoors, over the people running through the street screaming in fear, you hear sirens.

  
Miles cocks his head. When he speaks next, his voice is no longer echoing.  
  
“ _I_ want to kill them,” Miles says, though he sounds confused about it. He shakes his head and his eyes snap back to brown. His whole body loosens.  


He kneels down in front of you and snaps his fingers next to your ears. You flinch after a second.  
  
“Hey,” he says softly.  
  
He _looks_ human. You're not too sure if that's the truth though. You lean away from him and he frowns.  
  
“Great. I think you’re concussed. Waylon, we need to get the fuck out of here. Can you stand?”  
  
You sweep one leg under your body and, heavily relying on the wall, manage to get to your feet. He puts your glasses back on your face. One of the lenses is shattered.

  
  
“Good, good job,” he says. He grips you under the arms as you right yourself, then holds his hands in front of your face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”  
  
It looks like he has four hands. You focus.  
  
“Ten.” You guess, confidently.  
  
“I don’t— y’know what, good enough.” He grabs you by your wrist. His hand is wet and feels like hot coals against your skin. “We’re gonna have to run, Way. You good? You think you can manage that? These fuckers won’t be hurting anybody anytime soon but there’ll be more of ‘em coming.”  
  
“Miles, I can still see the swarm.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, it doesn’t seem to wanna go back inside right now. You ready to run?”  
  
Without waiting for a reply he tugs you after him. You make it three steps before stumbling. He glances at you over his shoulder, frustration mingling with concern. “Waylon, we don’t have _time_ for this.”  
  
But he moves his arm to wrap around your waist and keeps it there until you stop swaying. He feels like he’s vibrating. His bottom lip is trembling, his face a messy mixture of black and red blood. Smoking like a gun.  
  
“It’s angry at me,” he says through gritted teeth. “It isn’t gonna kill them. It _won’t_ kill them. Why won’t it just kill them?”  
  
When you are steady he lets go and you step over the dark-haired soldier, who hardly notices you, still holding his leg. You don’t look at his face.  
  
As you pass by the pale man, he laughs harshly and spits, “ _Vai all’estremita’ della terra se vuoi—”  
  
_ Miles whirls on him and grabs him by the front of his shirt, lifting him up and pinning him to the wall. The air hums. His voice comes out strangled. “Huh? What the _fuck_ did you just say to me? You really wanna fuckin’ test me right now?” He slams the soldier agains the wall again and shrieks, “Say it again you piece of shit, I’ll rip your other arm off!”  
  
You touch Miles’ shoulder and the air stops humming. His body loosens.  
  
The pale man holds his bloody stump to his chest, teeth bared.  
  
“God _damn_ you,” he snarls. His teeth are bloody.  
  
Miles leans in until their faces hardly an inch away and says, “He already fucking has.”  
  
The Murkoff agent is dropped to the ground. Miles looks at you, the whites of his eyes stark.  
  
“It won’t kill them,” he repeats, then turns on his heel and marches out of the alleyway, not waiting for you, not turning to see if you’re following. It takes you a second to realise he’s acting this way because he’s _scared_. Why is he scared?  
  
He disappears into the street, still swarming with panicked people. You just watch him go. You gulp. You’ve left a real mess here, you’re _in_ a real mess, and you have no idea how you’re going to get out of it.  
  
You could run. You could run and hide, forget this ever happened, forget the swarm exists, forget you ever met Miles, move on from this disaster.

  
  
But you go after Miles, trailing him like the swarm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm a man,  
> I'm a twisted fool.  
> My hands are twisted, too.  
> Five fingers,  
> Two black hooves." 
> 
> \- Glass Animals, Toes
> 
> sorry for late upload i forgot i was real!!!!!!!!
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> "Mani in vista. Nienti movimenti improvvisi." = Hands where I can see them. No sudden moves.  
> Waylon's Italian in this chapt is basically just "I don't know"  
> "Dov’è? Ci dica dov e’!" = Where is it? Tell us where it is!  
> "Questo non ti reguarda, signor." = This is none of your concern, mister.  
> "Vai all’estremita’ della terra se vuoi—" = You can go to the ends of the earth--
> 
> Thank u to all the commenters u fill me with joy


	10. It's dark, but i'll still follow you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're leaving it all behind again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter.

Miles flings the front door open so hard it bangs against the wall. He drips blood across the floorboards, leaves a red smear against the wood of the door. You half-run-half-limp after him, several paces behind. Everything in you begs to shrink away from the noise, from the blood, but you steel yourself and pass through the doorway after him, shutting the door behind you. You try not to think of how many people have seen you, seen _him_ , pelting through the streets surrounded by nanites that still refuse to disappear.  
  
Miles never once turned to see if you had followed him home. You start to think that he was running away from you. The hum in the air only increased the whole way back.  
  
He’s pacing back and forth in the living room, the swarm trailing him, a dead man and his constant cloud of flies. The lights above him are flickering, buzzing, the sound combining with the constant static of the swarm to create an unsettling roar. Your head is still pounding, blood drying in your hair. Your hands itch to cover your ears. You haven’t seen him this worked up before.

He starts when he notices you have joined him.  
  
“Oh, it’s just you,” he grunts, not slowing down in his pacing. He almost needs to shout to be heard over the incessant buzzing. “Still here, huh?”  
  
“Of course I am,” you say.  
  
“Must be desperate, then. Nowhere else to run to?”  
  
Your heart rattles against your ribcage. “Please stop pacing, Miles. You’re scaring me.”  
  
He whirls on you and you flinch, one arm jerking up to protect your face.  
  
A beat passes. You lower your arm. He is no longer pacing but staring right at you and right into you, the swarm rippling out in all directions, with a heaving chest and an expression that stings to look at.  
  
  
“You thought I was going to hurt you,” he says, forlornly. “Just then. Didn’t you?”  
  
Your mouth works furiously. _No_! _No, it’s not like that! You startled me, that’s all! I know you wouldn’t hurt me!  
  
_Do you know that? Do you?  
  
“Are you scared of me?” he asks, so softly.  
_  
_ You whimper. _  
_

One of the bulbs above you explodes, showering the two of you in sparks and shards of glass. The loud pop rings in your ears, your heart pounds, all senses begging you to turn heel and get the fuck out of that room.  
  
And you almost do. You almost shuffle toward the door, almost throw it open and run, but you don’t. His arms are stained in blood up to his elbows, his fingers still resemble claws, and he still appears faintly smokey but you can’t leave him.  
  
Miles turns his face to the ceiling. For a moment there is nothing but the fierce buzzing of the remaining bulbs.

  
“Jesus Christ.” He is the first to speak. “I did that. Fuck me, I broke it, didn’t I?”  
  
“Hey,” you say, almost adopting the mannerisms you’d use on your kids when they would freak out in public. “It’s alright. You…it wasn’t you, it’s not your fault. No one will get you in trouble for it. I bet shit like this happens all the time here anyway.”

“Jesus Christ,” he says again. “It’s not listening to me. Why isn’t it fucking _listening_ to me?!” He starts clawing at his face, hard enough to leave marks. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”  
  
“Miles—,” you try.  
  
“You have to go,” He bites out, alternating between wringing his hands and fretting them against his jaw. His scratch marks are reddening already, some of them bleeding freely down his face in thin streams. “Waylon, you need to _go_ , you need to get the fuck out of here, for real this time. You’ll be safe, it’s not you that Murkoff wants, I — I’m going to hurt you. God, Waylon, what if I kill you, what if I…”  
  
You have never seen him like this and you never want to see him like this ever again. 

  
You take a step toward him. “Miles, _please_.”  
  
“ _No_!” He barks, the lights above you fizzing and crackling wildly, sparks threatening to bust out at any second. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you? I’m not good, I’m not good, I’m not—”  
  
You don’t know why you do it but you reach out and cup his face with both hands, his skin hot to the touch. He grabs a hold of your arms, claws digging in, and freezes. You acknowledge that in any other situation the sudden touch would startle you, frighten you into a panic.  
  
You’re close enough to see his lips trembling. Everything, trembling.  
  
“Miles,” you say, and you’re shocked at how steady your voice is. “I trust you. You’re not going to hurt me. You’re not going to let the swarm hurt me. I know you’re not.”  
  
The lights are still buzzing.  
  
“How do you know that?” he asks. “I let it hurt those men. I _wanted_ it to hurt those men. How could you _possibly_ know that I won’t do the same to you?”  
  
“You were protecting me.”  
  
“I wanted to kill them.”  
  
“ _The swarm_ wanted to kill them. _You_ wanted to keep me safe. If _you_ wanted to kill them, you would have. I couldn’t have stopped you.” 

  
His claws twitch. Start to round out at the tips, softening around the edges.

  
“How do you _know_ that?” He repeats, weakly.

“You were saving me. Miles, you were saving my life. Monsters don’t do that.”  
  
Miles swallows. He shakes his head, but you know he’s heard you. His hands are normal again.  
  
“You’ve probably saved me more times than I know of,” you add. “You aren’t a murderer, Miles. You just share a body with one.”  
  
His eyes remain trained on your face, unblinking, boring into you as if to try catch some signal that you’re lying. He won’t, because you aren’t.  
  
“You’re _good_ ,” you tell him, and you mean it.  
  
“I’m not,” he replies. But there’s no conviction behind it, and you notice that the buzzing is quiet.  
  
You, with dreamlike slowness, run your thumbs over his cheekbones. Your fingers meet at the back of his head, threading gently through his thick hair, guiding his face closer to you. You hear his breath catch and a shiver tries to make its way up your spine. He blinks for the first time in a while. His expression changes. An open door, an invitation. You could close the distance between the two of you if you wanted and the softness of his eyes says he would let you.  
  
You don’t. He allows himself to be lead into the crook of your neck and promptly pushes his face into your skin, letting out a shuddering sigh. You feel the damp warmth of his blood against your throat. Your arms curl around his shoulders, one hand remaining in his hair.  
  
“We’re okay,” you murmur after a moment of quiet. “You’re okay, Miles. You’re okay, you’re okay…”  
  
He wraps his arms around you, crushing himself into your body.  
  
The bulbs above you flicker and dim to black, and when they return to full brightness the light is a pale pink.  
  
“What are we gonna do?” He whispers.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
You call Dotti.  
  
She picks up on the fourth ring, her voice groggy.  
  
“Waylon? What’s wrong?! Christ, it’s almost 12am!”  
  
“Dotti,” you say, shakily. “Dotti, something really bad has happened.”  
  
  
Standing out the front of your house, you start to talk. You tell her everything that happened earlier in the night; the soldiers finding _you_ , screaming at you to tell them where something was, your head being bashed against the brick, The Walrider ripping them and their weapons to shreds but leaving them alive because you had _asked it to._ You tell her you have no idea what the _fuck_ you’re supposed to do now. You know that you’re both in danger.  
  
  
“Please,” you finish, bracing one hand on the wall to steady yourself, “help us. I don’t know who else to call.”  
  
“Waylon,” she replies almost right away, “You’re going to be fine. You and Upshur are both going to be okay. The bureau will be able to clean up the mess you two left behind but you’re going to need to be well out of the way for us to do it.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I am going to call you and Upshur a car. The instant you hang up you are to break this phone and pack everything you can as fast as you can. Leaving those men alive means you likely have under half an hour before their backup arrives. Do not waste a single second of it.”  
  
Your throat is tight. “We’re leaving?”  
  
“You need to. God _damn_ this, Waylon. We had no clue Murkoff knew where you were located.”

“I don’t understand.”  
  
“Until now, we had thought Murkoff oblivious to the fact that the two of you were here, or that Upshur was the host. The Walrider was able to pick them off easily as they had no clue that it was still active. But now, Upshur’s failure to eliminate the mercenaries means that your position has been compromised, our mission along with it. It is time to move on.”  
  
Your brain is fuzzy. “Where are we meant to go?”  
  
“Somewhere with no Murkoff presence - at least not yet. The bureau and Upshur will need time to plan how to fix this oversight.”  
  
You feel sick. Sick, responsible, and vaguely like you are in a dream where you run and you run but you never make it anywhere.  
  
“What about you?” you ask.  
  
Dotti laughs softly. “I cannot go with you, Waylon. As much as I will miss your company, this is something you need to do without me.”  
  
  
The sky falls down around you. Your head is still pounding, blood crusting in your hair, your whole body trembling.  
  
  
“I don’t think I can do this,” you say, and realise there are tears in your eyes. You suck in a breath, willing them not to fall. “Dotti, I can’t do this. I can’t keep running.”  
  
“Oh, Waylon,” she murmurs. “ _Mio dolce regazzo._ You can call whenever you need me and I will answer, I promise.”  
  
You know that she means it and your eyes spill over.  
  
“We can fix everything that happened tonight, Waylon. We’re familiar with cleaning up after Upshur; this will be no different. Leave the work to us and get out.”  
  
You sniffle.  
  
“We are able to provide you and him separate housing,” Dotti goes on, “if you would prefer your own space. It may be safer that way; it does not appear to be you that Murkoff wants to capture, after all. I would imagine that you might be feeling a little wary of the swarm after tonight, and we can—”  
  
“It’s okay,” you interject. “I don’t think I want to be alone.”  
  
You can hear her smiling through the phone.  
  
“Good. I was hoping you would say that. That man needs you, too, you know.” She sighs. “I am going to miss seeing you every week, Waylon. And as much as I want to talk to you until the sun comes up, it’s time for you to go. You do not have time to waste.”  
  
You take a deep breath.  
  
“Okay,” you say. “Okay I’m going inside now. Thank you, Dotti. Thank you for everything.”  
  
“ _Rimanga sicuro,_ ” she murmurs. “I will talk to you soon.”  
  
“ _Rimanga sicuro_ ,” you say back.  
  
  
You hang up. You stomach twists in knots and every breath comes out as a sob but you haven’t the time to revel in your own sadness.  
  
Before going back inside you bash the phone against the wall until it breaks.  
  
  
__________________________________________

A man who introduced himself as Agent Price turned up exactly twenty minutes after you and Dotti had hung up. Between then and his arrival, Miles’ nose had bled badly and there hadn’t been the time to tidy the house. You’d left the place that had sheltered you for four months in disarray, shards of glass and a puddle of black on the living room floor.  
  
You’d all piled into Price’s nondescript car with only what you had time to pack. He hadn’t talked too much on the drive to the station; just let you know that you had a new house set up in Bergamo, and the train ride would take around ten hours. He’d told you how to identify the agent who would be collecting you once you’d reached your destination. He’d also briefly chastised Miles for not killing the mercenaries as would always be instructed, for endangering you both. Miles had just sat there taking it.  
  
You knew it was _your_ fault, not his. Somehow. You just hadn’t been able to admit it.  
  
You don’t think they would have believed you anyway.  
  
The train is mostly empty when you arrive. Price sees you off and drives away, though not before once again chastising Miles for not carrying out the job. You want to defend him, you do, but you don’t feel up to dealing with an argument right now.  
  
You and Miles have an entire carriage to yourself.  
  
  
**  
  
  
You’ve been in silence for more than an hour. Miles has chewed the tips of his fingers until they bled and is currently sitting across from you with his legs drawn to his body, a tissue wrapped around his hand. He’s paler than you’ve ever seen him. Hollow in the face. Entire body stiff.  
  
“Miles?” you say.  
  
He jerks his head up.  
  
“It’s not your fault,” you say.  
  
He grunts. Rests his head back against the window, stares into the middle distance.  
  
“Tonight was the first time I wasn’t disconnected from it,” he tells you. “It’s never been me who wanted to kill before. Always the swarm, just using my body to do it.”  
  
“It _was_ the swarm, Miles. Those men are alive because you broke through the Walrider.”  
  
“Are they better off alive, Waylon?”  
  
“No, absolutely not. But would you have been able to live with yourself if you were the one killing them, and not the Walrider?”  
  
He says nothing.  
  
  
“I think you should let me help you,” you say. Ignoring the look he fixes you with you continue, “I don’t think I can speak to the swarm - yet - but you saw what happened back there. I think… I think I might have been able to reach you, even through the Walrider. That’s got to be a good sign, right?”  
  
To your immense relief, he appears to consider this.  
  
You add, “I don’t know _how_ I would help, exactly. But I don’t think you can keep this up. Not like this. It must be killing you—”  
  
You cut yourself off. _Fuck.  
  
_“It’s okay,” he says. “You can talk about death in front of me. I wont get offended. I’m a cool guy like that.”  
  
“Ha ha,” you grumble, but you agree with him.  
  
He lets out a breath. “God, I really need to get back on my meds soon.”  
  
You have no idea what to say to that. You pull your arms in tighter. The train is freezing.  
  
You expect there to be another extended quiet.  
  
Miles speaks up again. “I really don’t know you that well, do I?”  
  
Blinking, you ask, “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean what I said. We’ve been living in the same place for - what, over four months now? - and I have no fucking idea about your hobbies or what your favourite colour is.”   
  
You’re aware that he is purposefully avoiding the earlier topic, but you smile. Maybe what he needs right now is the distraction.  
  
“You know me better than most people do, Miles. It’d be hard for you not to. Besides, I don’t think you need to ask someone all the typical first date questions for you to know them.”  
  
He hems.  
  
“It’s yellow, by the way,” you add.  
  
He tilts his head to one side.  
  
“Really?” He considers you for a second. “Yeah, actually I can see that. Nice choice, Way. Yellow’s a good one for you.”  
  
“Thank you for giving me permission.”  
  
This makes him laugh. You feel accomplished. 

  
  
You take the distraction idea and run with it, piling Miles with what you’d consider to be boring facts about yourself and throwing him a few questions every now and then. He learns that you’re quite good at crochet, that you were the captain of your college’s hack club, that you’d grown up always having a border collie and it’s been too long since you’ve had a dog.You learn that Miles’ favourite subjects in school were English and _drama_ (of all things), and that he used to be an avid piano player with an impressive collection of jazz records back home. He also tells you, much to your surprise, that he took dance classes for half his life and can execute a near-perfect pique turn; however, you don’t know if he’s joking because he refuses to show you it. 

  
  
To your relief, you notice that his shoulders loosen the more you two tell each other about yourselves. A bit of colour has rushed back to his cheeks. And, watching him talk animatedly about himself realising he was gay at his 4th grade dance, you remember that you are indeed a sucker for his dark hair and dark eyes.  
  
  
At one point he asks you, “So. Not straight, huh? You just not one for labels?”  
  
“No, I like labels,” you say, shaking your head. Ignoring the way one of his eyebrows shoots up, you inform him, “‘Bisexual’ is a good one for me, I think.”  
  
“Cool. How long have you known?”  
  
“I don’t know. I grew up assuming everyone was a little bit attracted to all of their friends. The first time I actually acted on the urge to do something with a man was after high school, though.”  
  
Miles looks very interested. “Yeah? How was it?”  
  
You roll your eyes and chuckle. “Well, seeing as it made me realise I was definitely bi, I’d say it was pretty damn great.”  
  
The silence that follows this conversation feels full. Satisfied. Miles stares into the middle distance but his expression is calm.  
  
“Y’know what? I’m gonna think about it,” he says.  
  
“Think about..?”  
  
“Your offer to help me out, dumbass.” He closes his eyes. “Honestly, I think you’re right: I can’t do this shit by myself for much longer. It’s dangerous, Waylon. You know that right? It’s really _fucking_ dangerous and you… Well, you’re kinda…”  
  
“Meek?” You prompt.  
  
“…Yeah. No offence.”  
  
You recall something Dotti had said to you only a few weeks ago.  
  
“The meek shall inherit,” you quote.  
  
Miles narrows one eye at you.  
  
You think he’s going to make fun of you but instead he quotes back, “‘Blessed are the meek: for they will inherit the Earth.’”   
  
You nod. Hug yourself to try stave off the cold.  
  
“I see you’ve also done your Bible study, you man of literature, you,” he says. “Anyway. I’ll have a think about whether or not I want to put your life in constant danger, I promise. Maybe you’ll keep on surprising me.”  
  
He stretches his legs out and puts his socked feet up on your seat. You watch him in silence as he twiddles his thumbs, checks on the state of his fingers and appears satisfied that they won’t bleed anymore. His head falls back gently until he is facing the ceiling. He groans deep in his chest.  
  
  
“I didn’t mean to freak you out earlier,” he says, not looking at you. “I’m sorry that I scared you so much. Y’know, I won’t mind if you decide you wanna live alone when we get to Bellissimo.”  
  
“Bergamo,” you correct with a snort. “And just so you know, they already asked me if I wanted to live by myself.”  
  
Miles’ expression is unreadable still. “Oh. What’d you say?”  
  
“I said I’d like to stay with you. I hope you’re okay with that.”  
  
Eyes still pointed at the ceiling, he hums, sounding content.  
  
“That’s fine by me,” he says, and you are glad to hear it.  
  
You dare to be a bit more honest with him.  
  
“This isn’t how I ever pictured my life going,” you tell him. “I already know that living with you could put my life in more danger than before, but I don’t think I’d be better off alone and neither would you. Living with you has really helped me get better - _you_ have really helped make me better - and I’m not ready to lose that.”  
  
He’s looking now.  
  
“I don't care what you are," you add. “And I don't care how bad it gets. We need each other.”  
  
You’re still so damn cold that your teeth chatter. You pull your knees to your body.  
  
“We’re both kinda fucked up,” Miles says, and you’re unsure if he’s arguing or agreeing.  
  
“Yes. So what? I’m fine with that. You understand me and I understand you. I don’t think anyone else on the planet would be able to say that. I mean it: you make me better.”  
  
He nod-shrugs. “I guess we do have a few similarities,” he responds. He watches your face closely for a couple of seconds before he clears his throat and tells you, “I appreciate you saying that. Thank you. You make me better too, man.”  
  
“No problem, _man_ ,” you murmur teasingly, but your heart swells.  
  
He sighs and rubs his face.  
  
“Sorry for being a depressing fuck,” he says. “Hanging out with you is pretty great, honest. You’re sorta the only good thing I have going for me right now.”  
  
In any other moment you would have sworn you had misheard him. But right now you just nod, unable to form the words to tell him what that means to you.  
  
Then he frowns in your direction. “You cold, Way?”  
  
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Are you not? It’s cold as balls in here.”  
  
He almost laughs. He digs through the bag next to him and pulls out a patchy red blanket.  
  
“You wanna share this with me?” He asks, holding it out. When you nod he says, “It’s not big enough to get you over there. Come sit next to me.”  
  
You do and he throws it over the two of you. It’s so soft that you want to bury yourself in it.  
  
“Thanks,” you grunt.  
  
For a while you both sit. He has his head against the window, eyes closed, long gaps between his breaths. You allow yourself to look at him. His high cheekbones, dark eyelashes. The sickly pallor of his skin does nothing to diminish the fact that he is quite beautiful.  
  
His head pops up and he catches you staring.  
  
“Something wrong?” He asks.  
  
“No,” you say, too quickly.  
  
“Okay,” he says. “You know what I’m gonna do the instant we get to Bergamo?”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Gonna rent a fuckin’ car. Apparently we’re allowed to do that. Might even get myself a jeep.”  
  
You sigh and shake your head, but you’re glad he still has it in him to be annoying.  
  
“That’s a great idea,” you tell him. “Maybe I’ll try to get a job. I don’t know _what_ I’d do yet but I think I’m done with staying inside all the time.”  
  
He nudges you with his shoulder. “Nice! I’m sure Bergamo is on the hunt for tour guides, or something. I could totally see you as a tour guide for, like, a museum or an old church or some other shit.”  
  
You scoff. “Me, a tour guide? I don’t exactly command people’s attention, Miles. No one will want to listen to me.”  
  
“Don’t be a dick to yourself! If you had the confidence, you’d be great.”  
  
  
You hum and consider this further. “You don’t think it could be a bit too dangerous? Tourists take a lot of photos. What if Murkoff sees me in one of them and it reveals our location?”  
  
“Could be a fair point, but in what world will somebody take a photo of their fucking tour guide? Who does that?” He adds, “That’s not to say that you aren’t a lovely looking man, Way. But no one’s gonna photograph _you_ when they’re standing in a big-ass church or, I dunno, admiring those ceiling paintings.”  
  
“You seem very set on this. I don’t know anything about the history of Bergamo.”  
  
“Yeah? Neither will the tourists. Just make it up.”  
  
You snicker.  
  
His following yawn turns into a rather impressive vibrato.  
  
“This window is fuckin’ uncomfortable,” he mutters. He wriggles closer to you and rests his head against your shoulder. You lower it slightly to give him more room. Pulling the blanket further over the two of you.  
  
  
You don’t know how long you remain like that. Eventually he sits up and complains again about being uncomfortable. You offer to return to your original spot but he says no, bringing his legs up onto the seat and curling into a ball. He gestures toward your thigh.  
  
  
“Can I lie down here?” he asks, looking up at you. “Would you be okay with that?”  
  
“Thank you for asking,” you respond. “It’s fine. Go for your life.”  
  
So Miles rests his head in your lap. Your hand instinctively goes to his hair, threading your fingers through it, running your nails gently over his scalp. He squeezes your knee once. His lips have turned up at the corners.  
  
  
**  
  
  
You stay awake long enough to see the sun start to come up, turning the inside of the carriage a gentle orange. Miles shifts in your lap when the light touches his face.  
  
Before you reach over and pull the curtain to block out the rising sun, you let yourself admire the way the light colours his features in warmth. His eyelids twitch. You draw the curtain and he mutters something in his sleep, so you lean down to check if he might need you to wake him up but he seems fine, lips parted, a comfortable weight in your lap. He loops one arm underneath your thigh and your chest flutters. You reorganise the blanket so it drapes around your shoulders, covering him up to his neck.  
  
He looks peaceful. Alive. You think he’s the best thing you have going for you right now.  
  
The train rocks you almost to sleep. You acknowledge that Miles Upshur is still a dick, and yet you think that you might like him quite a lot.

** END ACT 1 **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I rolled the dice  
> You sealed the deal,  
> That don't matter  
> 'Cause this pain will heal.  
> I will follow you  
> Into the dark.' 
> 
> \- Tash Sultana, Notion
> 
> ACT ONE IS DONE BABY AND WE ARE OFFICIALLY HALFWAY
> 
> Hi!!! So this one's kinda sleepy. I literally felt sleepy writing the ending, but good sleepy.
> 
> Anyway I'm sorry if i don't reply to comments, I read and love all of them i swear I just get nervous!!!!!!!!! Thank u everyone for your responses to this though, makes me feel so good.


	11. this wilderness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is growing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hi 
> 
> Sorry I've not updated in a lil while, I've been kinda sick !!!!!
> 
> I have nO idea how to include a link properly but check this out !!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/25137697  
> sisyphvs wrote this kickass fic based on the dynamics in this one and it is SO good. Go give it a read and some love bc fr it is very well written and rich with emotion. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: alcohol

**Begin Act 2  
  
**

****Miles somehow stays asleep for the rest of the trip. You, however, stay awake. Unable to get comfortable or even move with the other man lying across your lap.  
  
By the time the train starts to pull up to Bergamo station, both of your legs are completely numb from Miles’ weight and you’re not sure how long you’ve been up for. You shake him gently as the train slows down. He blinks his eyes open and lifts his head.  
  
“Huh?” he says. One side of his hair is flat.  
  
You swallow to urge to fix it for him. “We’re here. Time to get up.”  
  
He sits up straight and stretches, yawning, cracking his neck.  
  
“Shit,” he grunts. “I really slept that whole time.” He looks at your face. “You look like ass, Way.”  
  
“Thanks so much! I didn’t sleep at all.”  
  
“You shoulda shoved me off and lay down, then.”  
  
You get the feeling he knows you never would’ve done that. You go to stand and grab your bags but your legs collapse underneath you and you crumple onto the ground. You laugh, clutching your legs as the pins and needles sets in.  
  
“What the fuck is your problem?” Miles asks, grabbing you under the arms and pulling you up.  
  
“I can’t feel my legs at all!” You don’t know why you find this so funny.  
  
Miles waits for you to act like an adult. Your legs painfully regain their use, you grimacing the whole time. The two of you grab your bags from the overhead compartment and head out, stepping off the train and into Bergamo. You get the strange feeling that you’ve gone back in time. A huge clock on the wall reads 11am. The platform isn’t crowded, but it’s not empty either.  
  
“I guess now we wait,” suggests Miles. “Let’s just go stand over there.” **  
  
**You drag your things toward the back of the platform, out of the way. You ask Miles if he knows who you’re both waiting for. He shrugs. Not very promising of him.  
**  
** Time crawls by. The platform empties, fills, empties. You stand in one spot long enough that your bad leg starts to ache, forcing you to sit heavily on the concrete, your back against the wall and your bags between your legs. Miles joins you on the ground. Tapping his foot. Your brain goes blank.  
  
The clock reads 12:30pm when Miles suddenly stands again. You start, looking up at him and tracing his eye line to see that there is a man watching you at the other end of the platform.  
  
“Is that the guy?” you ask.  
  
Miles doesn’t reply.  
**  
** He taps you on the top of your head to signal you should stand. You do. He offers you his arm and you don’t take it.  
**  
** The man, white with a buzzed head, doesn’t even consider you when he arrives. He stands in front of Miles and says, “Excuse me, sir: would I be able to use your phone? I need to find directions to the chapel.”  
  
“I’m afraid my phone is out of battery,” replies Miles, sounding like he’s reading off a palm card. “But you are welcome to accompany me on the walk. I am heading in that direction.”  
  
“Huh?” you say.  
  
The man folds his arms and says, “Mr. Upshur. The name’s Marcel Morgan. _Agent_ Marcel Morgan. Good to see you.”  
  
“Yeah, we’ve talked on the phone,” Miles answers shortly. “And it sure is good to see me.”  
  
“Oh!” you say. “It was a _code_.”  
  
No one replies to you.  
  
“You two are early,” Marcel says, still only speaking to Miles. “I’ve been briefed on what happened back in Ravello; stupid move, Upshur. Stupid to leave those two men alive and more than capable of alerting their little buddies that you were out and about.”  
  
“Weird code,” you mutter to no one.  
  
“Heard it all before, Marcel.” Miles’ nose wrinkles. “We gonna go? Waylon’s been awake for nearly a whole day.”  
  
You frown, realise it has indeed been that long, and finally notice how exhausted you are.  
Marcel looks at you as if you’ve just appeared.  


“Park,” he says.  
  
“Hello,” you say back.  
  
And then you’re invisible again. Agent Marcel turns back to Miles and says, “Upshur, a minute of your time?”  
  
Miles throws out his hands and grunts, “I doubt I get a say in this.” He glances apologetically at you and asks, “You okay to be by yourself for a little bit?”  
  
You tell him you’re fine. The two men leave you with the bags and head all the way to the other end of the platform. You plonk down on a nearby bench, relieved to be sitting up again, watching them go. Miles keeps looking back at you. You turn away and stare straight ahead to give them privacy when they stop walking and start talking, their heads very close together. 

  
You zone out. **  
**

**  
** You don’t know how long you’re zoned out for.  
  
Someone snaps their fingers in front of your face. You jump. Marcel glares down at you. Miles is standing some distance behind him, his arms folded, scowling into the middle distance. The air hums. You wonder what could have been said between them to put him in such a mood.  
  
“Get up,” Marcel says. “We’re leaving now. Come on, I don’t have all day.”  
  
He marches off the platform and into the parking lot before you can even stand up. You start gathering all the bags but Miles steps forward and puts his hand on your wrist.  
  
“Let me take ‘em,” he says. The scowl is gone, replaced with something much softer. He takes one of the bags from your hands. “Just go down to the car; I can carry them, don’t worry!”  
  
You mumble your gratitude and trail after Marcel. He gets in the car when he sees you coming and you climb into the back seat, feeling weirdly like you’re in trouble. Marcel is staring at you through the rearview. You shift in your seat.  
  
You hear the trunk pop open and Miles throwing all the bags in there. A moment later he joins you in the back. **  
  
**The drive begins. Bergamo passes you in a blur of brownstone buildings and arches. If you weren’t so sleep-deprived you would have your face pressed to the window with wide eyes, watching the city go by. You make a mental note to get out for a walk as soon as you can. Dotti had said it was safe here, after all. You sure hope she was telling the truth.  
**  
** “Right,” Marcel begins after not enough silence. “Upshur, the bureau has decided it might be best if you could avoid going out until further notice. The mess left back at Ravello will—”  
  
“Hold the fuck up,” Miles says. “You’re putting me on fuckin’ _lockdown_?”  
  
“If you want to call it that, then yes.”  
  
“No. Nah, nah, nah. Not gonna happen, Morgan.”  
  
“Upshur—”  
  
“No, for real, it’s not gonna happen! You aren’t keeping me inside; the swarm’ll go fuckin’ insane. _I’ll_ go fuckin’ insane! Murkoff isn’t even here, so what the fuck am I staying inside for?”  
  
Marcel scoffs. “Upshur, perhaps if you weren’t so against following our orders you wouldn’t have caused all of this mess in the first place. Have you ever considered that?”  
**  
** Miles stiffens and you have to fight to stop yourself from groaning out loud. You are too fucking tired for this.  
**  
** “Man, chill out,” Miles says. “You guys are ridiculous. We’re _allowed_ to enjoy our life for a couple of—”  
**  
** “Don’t lose focus,” Marcel snaps over his shoulder. “Murkoff isn’t going to go easy on you when -not _if_ , _when_ \- they find you. You forget the reason you’re here and you and your dog are dead, Upshur.”  
  
“Your _dog_?” You mutter, incredulously. You look at Miles. “Who… Wait, am _I_ your dog?”  
  
“Besides,” Marcel adds, ignoring you, “don’t forget what’s in it for you if you succeed. And _only_ if you succeed.”  
  
You blink. It takes you a second to work out what Marcel is talking about, but when you realise it your mouth almost falls open. _Surely_ he wasn’t blackmailing Miles about the swarm cure right now.  
  
Miles’ lip curls. He leans closer to you and murmurs, “Fuckin’ hate this guy.”  
  
Marcel glares in the rearview mirror. “What was that?”  
  
“I said I fuckin’ hate you.”  
  
“Fun fact, Upshur: no one at bureau cares much for you either.”  
  
“That fact sucks! Not fun at all. I got a better one for you: did you know that siverback gorillas only have one-inch dicks? Most ridiculous body-to-dick ratio right after your stupid ass.”  
  
The agent sucks in a breath through his teeth and does not reply. You cast your praise to the Heavens that he doesn’t pull over on the side of the road and challenge Miles to an actual fight.  
  
The rest of the drive cannot go fast enough.  
  
  
**  
**  
  
**You arrive at your new place at around 2pm. The first thing you notice is that it is an actual _home_ , not just a terrace organised to look like something out of a real estate magazine. There are signs of life and personality within; paintings of beaches upon the walls, succulents on the windowsill, a magnet stuck to the fridge that declares, ‘ _I love cooking with wine. Sometimes I even put it in the food!’  
  
_There’s a main bedroom and a guest bedroom, both of which smell as if they’ve only been cleaned recently. There are still jackets hung in one of the cupboards. You feel like a guest left alone in someone else’s house.  
  
You express this thought out loud to Miles and Marcel intercepts with, “Someone did live here up until about two weeks ago.”  
  
“Well, what happened?” you ask. “They aren’t coming back, are they?”  
  
Marcel looks at you as if this is the dumbest question he’s ever heard.  
  
“No, Mr. Park,” he says. “The owner will not be coming back.”  
_  
_ Miles snickers to himself. “Yikes.” **  
  
**Marcel leaves you with your new ID cards, a folder full of cash, and the slightly ominous message that he will no doubt be seeing Miles soon. Miles waves him out the door, making no effort to hide his disdain. And then the two of you are alone again. You sigh. The relief is overwhelming, strong enough to snuff out your nerves. Miles stretches and shakes himself like a dog.  
  
“And _stay_ out!” he says.  
  
Seeing a look pass over your face, he prompts, “What’s up, Way?”  
  
“We’re _sure_ that Bergamo is Murkoff free?” you ask. “There hasn’t been a mistake, has there?”  
  
Miles tips his head to one side. “Of course it is. As stupid as the bureau is, they’ve never been wrong about Murkoff presence before, and Murkoff isn’t exactly _quiet_. They’ll tell us the instant they pick something up.”  
  
You nod.  
  
  
He offers for you to have the main bedroom and you accept, but you refuse to lie down until you’ve unpacked everything - no matter how hard Miles tries to get you to sleep. Unpacking doesn’t take long: your clothes don’t even fill half the closet. You wonder if it’d be worth buying more while you’re here, or if they too will just be left behind in a rushed evacuation some time in the future. You don’t dwell on it.  
  
It’s then you notice that the walls and ceiling of the main bedroom are painted a soft yellow, giving you an impression of sunlight despite the gloomy sky outside. Your mood improves exponentially.This must be why Miles offered for you to sleep here.  
  
Thinking of sleep…  
  
You crawl onto the bed at last and bury yourself under the off-white covers. They’re fresh, crisp against your skin, the faint smell of laundry powder filling your nose. You think you’ve earned a quick nap. It’s around 5pm when you drop off.  
  
**  
  
Miles wakes you up some time later with an expression of extreme relief and a, “Thank fuck. Thought you were in a coma!” He then tells you that you’ve been asleep for more than thirteen hours. The blinking alarm next to your bed announces that it is indeed 6:30am.  


“Ah, whoops,” you say.  
  
He’s holding a pink mug of something steaming in one hand, a single fried egg on a plate in the other. He offers you the plate and takes a sip out of the mug.  
  
“There was nothing else to eat,” he mutters. “There’s not even salt or pepper. This was literally the only thing left in the kitchen. I was gonna go grocery shopping, but I forgot.”  
  
You take the plate off him. “Unsalted egg! What a treat.”  
  
You catch a whiff of coffee and stare pointedly at his cup while you eat. He takes a moment to notice.  
  
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “There’s coffee. You want a coffee?”  
  
“I’d love one, thank you.”  
  
He raises his mug to you in a salute before he leaves. The statement, ‘ _It’s not easy being a BITCH!’_ is written across the side in white cursive. You choke on your egg. _  
  
**  
  
_Once you’ve fully woken up and had a wander around, you realise you might actually be a little bit in love with your house. There’s just so much _personality_ to it.  
  
“I might actually be in love with this house,” you tell Miles.  
  
“Fuck, me too,” says he. “There’s a _record player_!”  
  
So there is. He spends several minutes digging around in an attempt to find anything to play on it but his mission is unsuccessful. You mentally file away the fact that he shows a lot of interest toward it, thinking that maybe there’s a gift idea in there somewhere. _  
  
_Miles manages to follow his lockdown orders for half a day before convincing you to come on a grocery run. You’re still a little nervous.  
  
Aesthetically, Bergamo is a little more to your liking than Ravello; the clustered stone buildings give off the impression that they are pulled straight from the 16th century. The area you live in is quiet, your terrace some distance from a main road. Miles talks the whole way to the store and the whole way back. He tells you he’s done his research, and he thinks you two are going to like it here. You’re just happy to be somewhere Murkoff isn’t.

* * *

**  
** The first week in Bergamo passes by seemingly in a blink. **  
**

You _do_ like it here. You’ve dragged Miles all over the city and he’s trailed you through museums, galleries, parks you thought looked cool at the time. Very soon he starts offering to come with you literally everywhere; jumping to his feet if you even mention a place that interests you. You’re happy with this. He’s good company when he wants to be.  
  
As he said he would on the train, Miles does indeed rent himself a car. He had goaded you into accompanying him on the trip to the dealership seeing as he didn’t speak enough Italian to get by on his own. He’d settled for a deep red Forester and, after taking it for a quick test drive, had forked over enough cash to rent it for the next three months. You weren’t sure if this was a bit hopeful of him.  
  
“This car _fucks_ ,” Miles had said when you were ready to take it home. “Seriously, it fucks.”  
  
“Yeah!” you’d agreed, confused. “It sure does.”  
  
  
Whether or not the car fucks, Miles still nearly crashes it about eight times on the drive because he keeps viciously air-punching along with the opera station on the radio, leaving you to shriek and grab the wheel from the passenger seat, cackling in spite of yourself at the ridiculousness of it all.  
  
The car proves itself to be a worthy investment in the days that follow. Miles uses it for everything, offers you lifts to everywhere. You may finally understand why he was so mad about the whole losing-his-Jeep thing: that man gets _attached_ to his vehicles. Driving with him feels like third wheeling a touchy-feely couple. You don’t mind too much. You tell him he’s at his best when he’s focussing on the roads; not trying to annoy you, not joking around, just a guy with dark hair and dark eyes driving you all over Bergamo.  
  
  
**  
  
  
It’s a sunny Tuesday morning one week later when Miles drives you to Accademia Carrara Museum. His reason: “I want to check out the art again.”  
  
As he marches you through the front doors with determination, you start to doubt the legitimacy of his statement. And then he asks the first member of staff he sees if you can have a job here. Your jaw drops. You should have known it was all a set up!  
  
You ask the very confused staff member to excuse you both for a second and then drag Miles off to a corner.  
  
“What the hell?” you hiss. “Why are you doing this?!”  
  
He holds his palms out. “They’re hiring here! I looked it up. You said you wanted to get a job, on the train.”  
  
“No I didn’t! I— oh wait, I did say that, didn’t I? Shit. Well _this_ isn’t how I wanted to get one!”  
  
“You got any better ideas?”  
  
“…no!”  
  
You glance at the staff member where they wait for you a few feet away. They are smiling in your direction politely, hands behind their back. You attempt a look that says, “Everything Over Here Is Going Fine!”  
  
“Hey,” Miles says, catching your attention again. He grabs you by your shoulders. “You wanna _really_ start getting better? You wanna start living like a normal human? Then you march into that office, show off your sexy multilingual skills, and demand they give your ass a job.” He starts to shake you. “You hear me, Waylon? This is a fan-fucking-tastic opportunity and you are gonna grab it right by the balls because you’re the _man!_ ”  
  
The way he’s talking, you half expect orchestral music to swell in the background.  
  
“That was very passionate,” you tell him. “Please stop shaking me.”  
  
He stops shaking you.  
  
“What would I even do if I worked here? I’ve told you, I don’t know anything about Bergamo!”  
  
“Then _learn_ , dipshit. You’re a fast learner, you’re very approachable, _and_ you’re practically fluent in both English and Italian. If anything you’re overqualified to work in this dumbass place.”  
  
He sure is complimenting you a lot.  
  
He goes on, “Any job here is gonna be easy for you. And y’know what? I think you’d really enjoy being a tour guide.”  
  
You do doubt that, but you’re starting to feel different. A little inspired.  
  
“Okay,” you say, “okay, I can do this. I’ll just go over and tell them I’m looking for a job. I’m going to do it. I’m… Shit, I’m nervous. I don’t think I can do it. What am I supposed to do when Murkoff finds us?”  
  
Miles goes to start shaking you by the shoulders again.  
  
“Nervous is fine,” he says to you, avoiding the question, “but you absolutely _can_ do it. You’re one of the bravest men I’ve ever met in my life, Waylon; you’ve survived literal _hell_ \- you think working in a fucking museum is gonna bring you down?”  
  
“Probably not,” you admit.  
  
“Exactly,” he breathes. “You’re the fuckin’ _man_.”  
  
“Yeah!” you say, starting to feel a bit disorientated from all this shaking. “I’m the man?!”  
  
Miles shoves you in the direction of the still-waiting staff member, half knocking you off your feet. You look back at him.  
  
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he says. Before he turns to leave he gives you a two-finger salute and a huge grin. “See you in a bit, Way.”  
  
He heads out. You close the distance between you and the staff member at last, puffing out your chest, startled at how steady your voice sounds when you say, “ _Ciao. Stai assumendo?_ ”  
  
A little under half an hour later you’re walking back to the car. Miles is standing against it, presumably has been waiting out here the entire time. You smile when you see him. He stares at you expectantly.  
  
“So?” he prompts.  
  
You shrug. “Do you want to go home now, or grab something to eat?”  
  
His face falls. “Didn’t go well, huh?”  
  
You fold your arms at him. “What? No, I got a job, obviously. I’m just hungry now—”  
  
Miles lets out a loud whoop and pulls you into a hug so passionately that you are lifted off your feet. His excitement is infectious and you hug him back.  
  
“I fuckin’ told you!” he shouts once you are back on the ground. “You’re the _man!_ ”  
  
You grin, thinking that you’d be able to move a mountain if Miles believed you could.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Dotti had, of course, been a further beacon of support and pride when you’d called to tell her you were now working at the Accademia Carrara. She hadn’t even been slightly worried about the potential Murkoff-related dangers that came with working in a tourist hotspot - all she cared aboutwas that you had taken a massive step towards normalcy. You had something to pass the time, something to look forward to, and she owed Miles for encouraging (forcing) you into it. Her approval of Miles had meant a lot to you.  
  
You work three days a week and, to your surprise, you much prefer giving the tours than you do manning the museum gift shop. You are absolutely _not_ going to tell Miles that he was right, and that everything comes naturally to you when you are leading the small groups around and overflowing with information to share with them: you would never hear the end of it.  
  
One of the best parts of your week is when work finishes and you can take off your name tag and head on outside where, no matter how late it is, Miles will be leaning against the rental car waiting for you. He insists on picking you up every single time and it’s become a key part of your new ritual.  
  
You wonder if you ever will grow tired of it; the quiet kindness behind the action, the way his face always cracks into a grin when he notices you. And whether it’s because he’s been bored at home all day or if he just missed you, he’s always glad to see you.  
  
You share the couch most nights; him watching TV at one end, you curled at the other, either reading or watching with him. There hasn’t been a moment when you don’t laugh at the sight of him drinking out of his favourite mug, which Miles has lovingly named The Bitch Cup.  
  
Your nightmares appear to be growing bored of you. When they do wake you up, which isn’t often, you find that you are able to calm yourself down within minutes - something almost unbelievably big to you. Your anxiety levels hit a new low. You find that you’re able to talk _to_ your guests at the museum, rather than just _at_ them. You believe that now is as good a time as any to slowly wean yourself off your cocktail of medication.  
  
Bergamo has been good to you. You hope it’s been good to him.  
  


* * *

**  
** While you are definitely not ready to face a nightclub again, and probably won’t be for some time, you let Miles know that you would like to go out someplace with a lot of people to further test your comfort zone. He offers to take you to dinner in response. You accept.  
  
“My shout,” he says.  
  
“We share the same money, Miles.”  
  
“Yeah, true, but let’s just pretend.”  
  
He’s been so nice to you the past three weeks. You think he might still feel guilty for what happened that night in Ravello. You’ve wanted to bring it up again with him, tell him there’s no way he could have had any control over what went down, but it never feels like the right time.  
  
So, you play along with him, not thinking about Murkoff. “Do you want to dress formal?”  
  
He grins. “Fuck yeah, I do!”  
  
Turns out that neither of you have any formal clothes with you, which makes sense seeing as a suit and tie hadn’t really stuck out as essential packing when you were evacuating the US. You end up wearing a brown sweater with a jacket. Bergamo is a little warmer than Ravello with no chill rolling in off the sea, though the air is still crisp. Miles can’t pick an outfit so you lend him your deep yellow turtleneck that suits him very well, warming up the off-grey of his skin, putting a bit of life into him.  
  
He, of course, drives. The two of you head through the cobblestone streets until you see a place you think looks suitable; a little restaurant literally called ‘ _Il Piccolo Ristorante_ ’. You get out of the car and go inside by yourself to claim a table while Miles finds a parking spot. You almost can’t believe your own confidence.  
  
Miles joins you at your table for two and you order both of your meals. Before the waiter leaves, Miles points (with his middle finger) at one of the wines on the drinks menu and says the most American, “ _per favore?_ ” you’ve ever heard. You can’t help the breath of a laugh that comes out of you.  
  
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Way.”  
  
The bottle and two glasses are brought to your table within a minute.  
**  
** Miles pours himself and you a glass of the red. You frown.  
**  
** “Miles, you’re driving.”  
  
“I’m a grown man! I’m allowed to have _one_ glass of wine. The rest can be for you.” 

  
  
You haven’t had red wine in so long, fearing it wouldn’t sit well in a stomach full of pills. You finish your first glass much faster than you need to. Miles briefly gets up, tells you he needs to go to the bathroom. You pour and finish another glass by the time he gets back.  
  
“So,” he says. He’s grinning. “Enjoying the wine? Enjoying the vibes?”  
  
“Fuck yeah, I am,” you reply. You exhale. Oh boy. Maybe you drank too much too fast.  
  
Miles laughs out loud. Delighted. “You’re starting to talk like me!”  
  
“Oh God, I am, aren’t I? Maybe if you stopped swearing for five minutes—”  
  
“It’s hilarious, I love hearing you swear. But for real; are you okay right now? Having fun?”  
  
You nod, surprised by how comfortable you feel being here.  
  
“Cool,” he says, his grin growing suspiciously bigger.  
  
“Why are you smiling like that? What have you done?”  
  
“What! Nothing. I’m just in a good mood.”  
  
You narrow your eyes. “.. _Why_?”  
  
He laughs again. “Seriously? ‘Cos I like hanging out with you?”  
  
“You’ve been in a lot of good moods recently.”  
  
“Yes. ‘Cos we’ve been hanging out a lot.”  
**  
** You suspect there’s something else he isn’t telling you but you’re too busy feeling chuffed to chase it any further.  
  
The food is brought to the table and you dig in. Miles is still on his one glass of wine. You try not to feel bad finishing the majority of the bottle to yourself, wishing he was on your level. Your meal is good enough that you don’t say anything until you’re done eating it. Miles appears to be in the same boat. He keeps biting his bottom lip, smiling down at his food.  
  
The empty plates are cleared away by your waiter, who smiles at you hugely before he leaves. You blink. You start to feel a little nervous without knowing why.  
  
Miles finishes his wine.  
  
“How are you feeling?” he asks, again.  
  
“Fine,” you say. “Really, really fine. Only a little bit anxious.”  
  
He hums, blinking in a pleasant way.  
  
“You’re getting so good at handling shit,” he says. “Remember when we first met? You’re like a different person now.”  
  
Lisa had said something similar to you all that time ago, but when Miles says it it hurts so much less and means so much more.  
  
“Thanks, Miles,” you say. “You too. I used to think you were a dick.”  
  
He chuckles. “I definitely am still a dick, Way.”  
  
There’s that suspicion again. You _know_ he’s hinting at something.  
  
“How so?” you prompt.  
  
His eyes are sparkling, something creeping across his expression.  
  
“Have you done something?” you ask.  
**  
** And then there’s excited chatter rising from the kitchen and Miles fixes his eyes on a point over your shoulders. He presses his lips together but the grin on his face wins the fight. He starts chuckling. Your heart, for whatever reason, pounds in fear.  
  
“Miles,” you say, “ _what did you do_?”  
  
You turn around to see your worst fucking nightmare: a crowd of waitstaff, holding a heaping bowl of dessert with a lit candle sticking out from the middle of it - and they’re all coming straight for you.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” you say, and you hear Miles cackling. “Oh, _no._ ”  
  
The waitstaff begin singing happy birthday in a hypnotic mix of English and Italian, surrounding your table, and you are powerless to do anything but stare in openmouthed horror at Miles as it all unfolds. Miles, who brought this onto you. Miles, who is laughing so hard that he’s slid down his chair halfway to the floor. You could kill him. You think you might. You swear the whole restaurant is passionately screaming along with the godawful song.  
  
“Happy birthday dear—!” The restaurant all mumble their guesses as to what your name is. Even you find that funny, or you would if you didn’t wish you were dead right now.  
  
One of the waiters sets down the enormous plate of tiramisù in front of you. The singing draws to a close. You squirm in your seat. The candle flickers.  
  
“Hip, hip, hooray!” all of Italy shouts, deafening you.  
  
You stare at the sponge. Sigh, deeply.  
  
You blow out the candle.  
  
The restaurant erupts into applause. One of the waitstaff claps you on the shoulder, warmly wishing you a happy birthday, and in your frazzled state you attempt to thank them but end up wishing them a happy birthday as well. Miles clips his head on the table in his fit of laughter.  
  
When the waitstaff have all gone and people are no longer looking, you snarl in Miles’ direction, “What the fuck? It’s not my birthday! Why did you tell them it was my birthday?!”  
  
He wipes a tear from his eye.  
  
“You get a free dessert!” he chirps, then erupts into another bout of snickering.  
  
“That was horrible!”  
  
“You dealt with it like a champ! Shit, Way, you might be the bravest man on earth to have sat through that without dying on the spot!”  
  
You shake your head, looking down at your plate of birthday tiramisù. It’s bigger than your head. You pull the candle out of it. You wait for your heart to stop pounding and the heat in your cheeks to die down.  
  
“I hate you,” you tell Miles.  
  
“I told you you were great at handling shit.”  
  
“I think I’m going to kill you.”  
  
Giggling still, he says, “Yeah, fair enough.” He eyes your dessert. “Shit, that looks fuckin’ amazing.”  
  
It really does. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a dessert this well put together in your life.  
You drag the plate towards yourself and scoop your first spoonful, making sure to eat it off very slowly. A divine mixture of coffee, mascarpone and cocoa explodes over your tongue. It’s good. Holy shit, it’s so fucking good. You almost moan.  
  
Miles is glaring.  
  
“You look like you’re in a porno,” he says. He glances at the tiramisù again. “C’mon. Can I have some?”  
  
“It’s _my_ birthday,” you reply as you eat another scoop.  
  
“Fuck you,” Miles grumbles. **  
  
**You keep the bit up for as long as you can before you start feeling guilty - despite everything Miles has done to _you_.  
  
You push the plate into the middle of the table. His whole demeanour lights up.  
  
“They only gave us one spoon,” you say, “but yes you can have some. We’ll share it.”  
  
Miles takes the spoon off you and digs in, his grin enormous. He really does moan when he first tastes it. You get the urge to block your ears and look away.  
  
“Holy _fuck_ ,” he whispers. “God _damn_! Happy birthday, Waylon.”  
  
He gives you the spoon again. You have another bite.  
  
You give it back. He has a bite.  
  
The two of you continue passing the spoon back and forth until the tiramisù is defeated. You don’t break eye contact the entire time and by the end of it your cheeks ache from smiling. 

  
**

  
  
You call Dotti later that night to tell her all about it. She, through her bouts of laughter, lets you know that she’s proud of you for every step you’ve managed to take without her. Your heart aches a little bit.  
  
“I wouldn’t be able to do it without Miles,” you say, and you really mean it.  
  
You can tell she’s smiling.  
  
“Of course not,” she replies. “He’s good for you, Waylon. And you are so good for him!”  
  
You hum in agreement.  
  
She goes on, telling you, “You know, I think that together you can make it out of this wilderness.”  


Your heart swells.  


* * *

  
**  
  
**One night you’re reading on the couch when Miles strolls in through the front door and promptly shows you his newest purchase: six bottles of various white wine.  


“Why did you buy so much?!”  
  
“It was on special! AND it was our one month in Bergamo anniversary last week. I thought that was cause for celebration.”

  
You suppose he’s right. He grabs two glasses from the kitchen and joins you on the couch, pouring you one first. You clink the glasses together.  
  
“How is it?” Miles asks, “How’s the Pinot Grigio?” except he pronounces it ‘peenott greggy-o’, definitely to get a rise out of you.  
  
It works. You want to kick him.  


“It’s nice!” you say instead.  
  
Miles pauses after finishing his first glass. You ask him why and he says, surprising you, that the swarm in his blood has turned him into a massive lightweight and he needs to pace himself. But then he shrugs and pours out another.  
  
“Gotta make the most of Murkoff-free Bergamo, I say,” he grunts to you.  
  
You tell him you’ll drink to that. You do drink to that. You even feel confident to drink to that, knowing that you’ve taken no meds that could react poorly.  
  
Miles turns on the television and flips to a channel that appears to just play jazz music. You’re very relaxed, more so than you’ve been in months. You’ve always enjoyed nights in, good company, good wine. It doesn’t matter that the person you’re with isn’t Lisa or that you can’t understand much of what’s being said on the television.  
  
As if reading your mind, Miles suddenly asks, “How have you been, lately? Like, when it comes to your family and stuff.”  
  
You think for a moment.  
  
“Oh. Well, I miss them a lot,” you reply honestly. “Of course I do. I think about them all the time; I think about home all the time. But they look like they’re going okay. Maybe me being here really is the best thing for them, at least for now.”  
  
Miles nods.  
  
“They must miss you so much,” he says. You blink at him, surprised, and he adds, “Why wouldn’t they? They’re everything to you so of course you’d be everything to them.”  
  
You grunt.  
  
“Do you think you’ll go back to them when we’re done here?” Miles’ voice is casual, his expression curious.  
  
You don’t know if you want to talk about that with him. You’ve spoken about it so much with Dotti, talked about it to yourself as you go to sleep. The bigger part of you believes that, even if Murkoff is dismantled, there might not be anything left for you with Lisa.  
  
“I don’t think I get much of a say in that,” you tell him. “And I’m not sure that I want to talk about this.”  
  
There’s a time and a place to miss someone, and that time is not now.  
  
Miles gets it.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Go on, make it even: ask me anything you want.”  
  
You take him up on this offer.  
  
The question you decide on is, “Why didn’t you ever get married? And don’t give me some ‘married to my work’ nonsense, please.”  
  
“Because I was married to my w—”  
  
“Miles, come _on_.”  
  
He snorts. “Jeez, I _wish_ it was ‘cos I was married to my work! Nah, I never got married because no one ever wanted to marry me. Pretty simple.”  
  
“Oh,” you say.  
  
You hadn’t expected that answer and have no idea how else to respond.  
  
He shrugs. “I’m not a very likeable person so I really can’t imagine being loveable.”  
  
“I think you’re likeable,” you insist. “I know you’re likeable— I like you!”  
  
“You have to say that, Way. You live with me.”  
  
“I don’t have to do anything! You’re likeable. I mean it.”  
  
He presses his lips together and doesn’t make eye contact with you. For the first time in a while you hear the lights hum. He’s getting uncomfortable but you want to know him so badly that you let yourself be selfish, just for a little bit.  
  
“You never talk about your home life,” you say. “You know the ins and outs of mine, and I know nothing of yours.”  
  
Miles narrows one eye, peering into his glass.  
  
“I don’t talk about it because it’s kinda depressing,” he mutters. “I’m alone pretty much all the time - or i _was_ at least. I know I’m _meant_ to have all this love and warmth shit tied to home, but that’s never been it for me. I dunno if that’s ‘cos life was weird as a kid, or ‘cos I never stayed in one place too long, but if I try think about what I’m gonna do when we go back to America I just get pissed off because I have _no_ idea.”  
  
You wait for him to go on, sensing he isn’t done. He empties the glass and opens the second bottle as he talks.  
  
“I haven’t spoken to my family in years, even before we ‘died’. They weren’t too ecstatic about the whole gay thing - nothing bad ever happened, exactly, they just didn’t care for it and couldn’t look past it. So, I left. Home has always been something that’s sucked so hard, ‘cos I’ve either been by myself or with people who didn’t give a fuck about me.”  
  
You nod your head to let him know that you're listening.  
  
“So, yeah. For me, the idea of home is a bit of a sore spot.”  
  
You think he might be done.  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miles.” You choose your next words carefully. “I’ve never thought of home as just a physical location, though. More as the feeling of safety I associated with something or someone. Does that make sense? It…it made sense in my head.”  
  
“No, it makes sense,” he says. “I just don’t relate to it. I guess you believe that home is where the heart is, then?”  
  
You think for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I do. That being said, it isn’t just family or who you grew up with. Home can be a lot of different things, and for me it’s always been what I feel the deepest connection to. Physical distance doesn’t really factor into it.”  
  
“Hm. That sounds nice.”  
  
You have never given the concept this much attention, but you realise he’s right: it _is_ nice. And you are privileged to know how it feels to have had something you always wanted to return to so badly.  
  
Miles sighs, a deep action that moves his whole body.  
  
He says, “I’m not sure where my home is, so I guess I don’t know where my heart is either.”  
  
You gasp. Struck by his honesty, you reach out to touch his shoulder. He leans into your hand. Touches his fingers to yours. There’s a warmth in the air that only intensifies the more you two drink.  
  
“Hey,” you say.  
  
He looks at you.  
  
“You’ll find it. You’ll find home.”  
  
He tilts his head, doubtful.  
  
You go on, “If it makes you feel any better, I was also having a bit of a hard time working it out. It used to be Lisa, my sons, even the shitty house we lived in - and now it’s a vague feeling of peace I get sometimes. It’s rare, but I still feel it. I think I might be finding home again.”  
  
He doesn’t say anything so you prompt, “Do you want to know what makes me feel like I’m home, these days?”  
  
He nods.  
  
“Moments like this,” you answer. “Spending time with you, Miles. I appreciate that I can tell you anything and you don’t judge or pity me for it. You’re… You’ve been a good friend to me these past few months and I don’t know where I’d be without you. You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a home in a long time.”  
  
Miles chokes on his sip of wine, startling you almost into leaping off the couch. You slap him on the back until he finishes coughing. He ducks out of the way and gives a thumbs up as a thank you.  
  
He clears his throat. “That’s kinda gay.”  
  
You roll your eyes and open your mouth to rebuke him.  
  
He beats you to it, rubbing the back of his neck, face very pink. “Thanks for saying that, Waylon.”  
  
You settle back on the lounge and pour yourself more wine, which finishes the second bottle off. You glare at it for a moment before just putting it on the floor in front of you, not bothered to make the long trip to the bin.  
  
“I meant it,” you mumble into your glass. Your face burns and you aren’t sure if it’s just the wine.  
  
In your periphery you see him opening and closing his mouth, tapping his leg against the side of the lounge. One finger drumming against the stem of his glass.  
  
He says, “You’re my best friend.”  
  
You turn to him. You realise it’s not him that’s turned pink but the glow of the lamp beside him.  
  
He says, “You’re my _only_ friend.”  
  
And suddenly Miles holds your heart in his mangled hands.  
  
“You’re mine, too,” you murmur.  
  
That heavy weight in your chest gone, pulsing safely within Miles’ fingers, your whole body is lifted up, up…  
  
Miles grins at you, goofily, smile so big it could split his face in half. He sets his glass down on the floor and shuffles down the lounge until he sits cross-legged in front of you. He puts his palm on the back of your head and pulls you forward as he leans in. Your breath catches, and he presses his lips to your brow. Your eyes flutter shut, but not before you notice the pink light of the lamp deepen considerably.  
  
He bumps his forehead to yours and you stay in that position for a moment, your hands on his knees, revelling in the closeness, the smoke-vanilla scent of him, the familiarity of someone else’s hand in your hair. It’s comfortable, it’s safe. It feels like home.  
  
“Hey,” he says, and you open your eyes, his face close enough that his eyes merge together and turn him into a kindly cyclops.  
  
“Hi,” you whisper.  
  
He pulls his head back. The loss of contact is noticeable.  
  
“You’re really cool,” he blurts out, and immediately grits his teeth in a cartoonish expression of regret that gets you chuckling.  
  
You lean in and kiss his forehead. Letting him know the respect is mutual. The feeling is more than mutual.  
  
He gets another bottle of wine out after this and you two finish that off much faster than the first or the second. You sit close together on the couch, your bent leg half on top of his, reminiscing this past month as if it happened centuries ago. You can’t stop smiling. You can’t take your eyes off the nose crinkle he gets when he’s laughing, really laughing. You don’t understand it. You think you might want to freeze this moment and remain here forever.  
  
Time passes. The wine wears you down. You yawn, loudly.  
  
“Tired?” Miles asks, his voice slurred, squinting at you as if to focus. “You…You wanna go sleep now?”  
  
“Fuck yeah, I do,” you respond, but you don’t make any move to go to your bedroom. You lie where you are, across the couch. Miles wriggles closer and pulls your top half into his lap, your head on his thigh.  
  
“It’s like on the train,” he says, out of nowhere. “It’s like the train. It’s reverse.”  
  
“What the hell are you—”  
  
You cut off. His fingers are running through your hair. Nails scraping against your scalp. You both go quiet.  
  
“Is this okay?” he whispers. “You always do it for me, I just wanted to…I dunno. Reciprocate.”  
  
“It’s so good,” you reply. You squeeze his thigh. “Thank you.”  
  
He combs through your hair, threading it through his fingers. You’re feeling…  
Well, you’re not sure what you’re feeling. You don’t want it to go away.  
  
“Miles?” you pipe up, your voice soft.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Stay alive for me. Please.”  
  
His hand stills briefly.  
  
“I want to,” he says. “I want to, so fucking badly.”  
  
It becomes harder and harder to keep your eyes open. The room tilts. His fingers eventually leave your scalp. You hear him let out a breath, feel his legs shift underneath you as he gently pushes you off him and starts to get up. You grab his wrist. Tug his arm, once, twice, three times. He chuckles, tells you you’re drunk. You cleverly reply that no, _he’s_ drunk. You pull his arm again. He sighs.  
  
But nevertheless, he switches off the lamp and comes to lie down on the couch with you, his head at one end and yours at the other.  
  
“G’night,” he says, quietly.  
  
“Goodnight,” you say back.  
  
  
**  
  
You’re sitting on that beach again.  
  
A shadow passes over the sun and you look up, shielding your eyes. There’s something falling out of the sky. Hurtling down, down, down towards the frothing ocean.  
  
  
**  
  
  
You don’t know what time it is when you wake up. It’s still dark out. The wine buzz hasn’t left you yet. You can’t have been out for longer than an hour.  
  
You’re too cramped at this end. You watch Miles sleep for a moment. His breathing is slow, deep.  


You start to crawl to lie alongside him, stretching your body further over the couch. He shifts as you settle in, muttering something you don’t catch. You slot yourself in between his body and the back of the couch, your head on his chest. There’s complete silence in his ribcage. No heartbeat, not even a murmur. It’s unusual, a rather jarring reminder of his condition. You close your eyes again. He puts his hand on the small of your back.  
  
You haven’t been this close to someone since before the asylum. You don’t know how you’ll feel about it in the morning, when the buzz leaves your blood.  
  
But for now, you are comfortable, and you fall back asleep with his arm around you, your heart pulsing gently in the palm of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'This kiss, this heartbeat, this breath.  
> This heart, this heart, this wilderness.
> 
> Lift me up, darling.  
> Lift me up, and I'll fall with you  
> Lift me up.  
> Let your love lift me up.' 
> 
> \- Bruce Springsteen, Lift Me Up 
> 
> Do u know how hard it was to pick the perfect chapter for the title song to go in. HUH?? 
> 
> ANyways so turns out that love is real and Miles is a big softie. Fuck the Mean Miles headcanon all my homies hate Mean Miles. I have NO interest writing this man as cruel - Mt Massive taught him empathy n Waylon's gonna teach him love. Fin. Also if u draw Miles and his It's Not Easy Being A BITCH!!! mug i'll kiss u on the lips.
> 
> Thank u sm for reading and reviewing and kudosing as always!!!! <3


	12. The lights that glow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You set aside some time to feel human again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me, the House of Clowns. 
> 
> Love u 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Description of medication withdrawals

If asked, you would agree that healing is not a linear process.  
  
Dotti has spent the better part of six months drilling this into your head but it isn’t enough to stop you from hating yourself on your bad days.  
  
A nightmare creeps up on you without warning. You sleep in your room of pastel yellow, the sheets crisp against you, when suddenly you’re not safe anymore. You open your eyes and there’s a pipe sticking out of your leg, there’s blood everywhere, there’s an anguished voice screaming down at you asking _why would you do something like that to yourself?  
  
_ You’re back there with _him,_ and this time you don’t make it out. Fingerless-gloved hands grab you by your throat, something sharp driven into your stomach. You gasp and in a snap everything in front of you falls away and you’re on that beach again, but this time the sky is black and the ocean is black and there’s someone in the water screaming for you to help them.

You jolt awake. It’s still dark outside and the yellow walls are curdled milk and you get the vague impression that the world is ending, that it’s rotting away before you. The room bends. Your hair stands on end, breath rattling, heart pounding like a drum. You can still hear waves crashing.  
  
The alarm next to you blinks 3am. The witching hour indeed.  
  
The way your Bergamo house is set up means that Miles sleeps too far away from you to hear you when you’re dreaming. Your whole body is trembling, sweating. You’re agitated, angry at yourself, angry at your brain for screwing you over again. You’re torn between wanting to cry and wanting to beat up your pillow.

  
You rub your eyes. You slowly start to calm down - not enough to go back to sleep, but enough to breathe properly.  
  
By the time the sun rises you’ve given up on trying to sleep again. You get out of bed, pull on some sweatpants and a warmer top, and head out into the living room where you’ve nothing better to do than attempt to start your day.  


  
**

  
Miles emerges from his bedroom at an earlier time than you would have expected. He’s wearing checkered pyjama pants and a long sleeved navy shirt. He’s clutching a scrunched up piece of bedding in his hands.  
  
“Hey,” he greets, heading on past you into the laundry room. “You’re up early. How’d you sleep?”  
  
You don’t reply with more than a grunt.  
  
You hear him thumping around in the laundry for a minute or two. He comes back out and his hands are slightly wet. He starts toward the kitchen but pauses in front of you.  
  
“You look like ass,” he informs you.  
  
“Feeling it, too,” you reply.  
  
“Hm,” he says. “I’ll make you a coffee.”  


  
You could kiss him on the mouth. Instead you just smile at him gratefully, say thank you, sit a little more comfortably while you wait. 

  
  
He returns with two steaming mugs, of course offering you the one that doesn’t say ‘ _It’s not easy being a BITCH’_ on it. It just wouldn’t suit you, he says.  
  
He sits next to you, clinks his coffee cup to yours, then moves a little further away to give you space.  
  
“What’s eatin’ you?” he asks.  
  
Your exhale moves your entire body.   
  
“I’m having nightmares again,” you admit, not bothered to make up something more elegant.  
  
He nods. Doesn’t say anything, waiting for you to continue.  
  
“They’re getting really weird,” you say. “I thought I was done having dreams about the asylum, but apparently not. And then there’s the beach.”  
  
“The beach?” he asks, frowning.  
  
“I keep dreaming about this damn beach,” you grumble. “Nothing happens, usually; I just sit on the shore looking at the waves. But last night I dreamt about Gl…Glusk-Gluskin, and when he went to kill me I teleported to the beach and everything was so dark. I couldn’t see anyone, but I _knew_ there was somebody in the water.” You grimace at your own words. You sound ridiculous. “What do you think that means?”  
  
The frown has not left Miles’ face.  
  
“That _is_ weird,” he says. “How many times have you dreamt about it?”  
  
“Five or six? I don’t know.” For some reason your body is shaking, sweating. Your teeth clack together.  
  
Miles’ nose wrinkles a bit.  
  
“There’s something off about you,” he observes.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Like…” he gestures to all of you, “…your body’s being weird. I can hear your teeth chattering from here. Are you sweating a bunch, too?”  
  
“Yeah,” you say. “How’d you know?”  
  
“Just a hunch. You look like you’re going through withdrawal.”  
  
“I think I might be,” you say, before you can stop yourself.   
  
“What do you—”  
  
He pauses.  
  
“Waylon,” he says, one eye narrowing, “have you stopped taking your meds?”  
  
You shuffle where you sit and don’t answer, which is more than enough of a response for him to groan and rub his eyes.  
  
“Why the _fuck_ would you do that?” he asks.  
  
“I just—”  
  
“Did Dotti tell you to? She better not have.”  
  
“No, no. She doesn’t know. It’s only been a bit over a week.”  
  
Miles shakes his head. “Why did you stop taking them, Waylon?”  
  
“Because I felt fine. I was really feeling fine. I thought maybe I didn’t need to keep taking so many pills to get through a single day.” You make a frustrated sound deep in your throat. “Jesus. I thought I’d be fine without them. It’s stupid. _I’m_ stupid. I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I? God…”  
  
His slides down to sit closer to you.  
  
“You’re only a bit of an idiot,” he says in a much softer tone than before.  
  
You sigh.  
  
“I _did_ feel better,” you insist. “At least… I thought I felt better.”  
  
He puts an arm around your shoulders with deliberate slowness, checking you’re fine with the contact. You lean into him. He presses a kiss to your temple. Your heart tingles.  
  
“You were definitely getting better,” he says. “And you were getting better _because_ of the medication. Besides, you thinking you didn’t need the pills anymore was a sign that they were, y’know, _working_.”  
  
“I guess I didn’t want to rely on them that much.”  
  
“Waylon, they’re your medicine! You rely on them because they’re saving your life - or at least improving it. Stop being so hard on yourself, man.”  
  
You sigh, again, but you’re starting to realise he’s right.  
  
“You must think I’m a dumbass,” you say.  
  
He pulls you into him a little more, giving you a shake. “Yeah, but I’ve always thought that.”  
  
“Shut up, Miles,” you grumble, but you make no effort to wriggle away.  
  
He kisses the side of your head again. He’s been doing that a lot this past week. You try not to think about why you like it so much when he does. You turn to look at him to see his face is close enough that you almost bump his nose with yours. He doesn’t pull back right away and your heart could stop.  
  
He stands up eventually though, despite you wishing he wouldn’t.  
  
“I’m gonna make breakfast,” he announces. “You should take the week off, I think. It’ll be a few days before the tremors die down.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“Experience. Obviously.”  
  
You furrow your brow. “What am I meant to do with all the free time, then?”  
  
“Dunno. Maybe we can hang out more. Maybe you can use it to feel better.”  
  
He heads on into the kitchen. You follow his advice and, feeling a little slack but very relieved, phone into work to tell them you won’t be able to make it this week.  
  
  


* * *

Time passes and Miles was right: you really did need the week off.  
  
Starting on the meds again doesn’t miraculously stop your withdrawal symptoms right away, which disappoints you almost as much as the fact you need to take them. Miles tells you to give it a couple of days. And, seeing as he has nothing else going on without a Murkoff presence in Bergamo, he does everything for you. The amount of tea he makes you is ridiculous.  
  
He’s been suspiciously kind to you so far. It’s hard to believe that Miles is the same person who yanked you off a barstool all those months ago and demanded you give him his Jeep back. You consider that maybe the FBI swapped that guy out with a newer, nicer model somewhere along the lines. Either that or, maybe he just likes you. You definitely like him. In fact, the _amount_ you like him keeps catching you off guard.  
  
  
You even went out and bought him a present for no reason - the INXS album ‘Kick’ on vinyl, which he was absolutely _thrilled_ to receive and it turned out the reason why was that he’d lost his virginity to that album.  
  
“Oh,” you’d said when he told you this. “That’s good to hear.”   
  
“How’d you guess?” he’d asked.  
  
“I DID NOT GUESS THAT.”  
  
“No, idiot; how’d you guess I would like this album?”  
  
Instead of telling him you’d bought it for him because you thought the album was cool and he was cool enough to match, you’d just shrugged and said you got lucky.  
  
He’s played ‘Kick’ every day since getting it. It’s growing on you almost as fast as he is.

  
  
You think you realised something the night you slept half on top of him on the couch, which Miles insists he didn’t mind. You’re not sure _what_ you realised - you’re not _that_ in tune with your emotions - but it was certainly a moment for you. You start to notice when he’s gone, you’re at ease when he’s with you. He goes out a lot at night and you find yourself anxious for his return. You don’t miss Lisa as much when he’s with you. And, while you’re not too comfortable with the idea of sleeping near somebody again, you’ve noticed that a) you’re more than fine for Miles to touch you, and b) Miles is more than fine for you to touch him.  
  
This feels like an important achievement. Miles lying across your lap every night since then, while you watch TV and play with his hair, is an equally important achievement.  
  
He appears to be quite well. His skin is more browned than it is grey and he’s been keeping a bit of weight on. You haven’t seen him have a nosebleed since you left Ravello. You wonder what he’s doing differently for him to start looking so healthy.  
  
You hope it lasts.  
  
  


* * *

  
It’s 11pm on the Friday when he approaches you to ask, “Do you want to go out tonight?”  
  
He must notice your face blanch, because he quickly adds, “Not to a bar! Just the two of us. I was thinking we could go for a drive.”  
  
You’re unsure. You haven’t been out at night this week yet, and still aren’t feeling the greatest in terms of anxiety. You gnaw on your bottom lip.  
  
Your voice is steady. “Where would we go?”  
  
“You are gonna _hate_ this response,” he says, “but you’ll see when we’re there.”  
  
You hate that response.  
  
“C’mon Waylon, trust me.” He tilts his head to one side just slightly. “ _Please_ , come for a drive with me tonight. I’m so fucking bored.”  
  
“Why don’t you just listen to ‘Kick’ again?”  
  
He glares.  
  
You wish you could just get up off your ass and say yes to life, say yes to Miles, but you can’t stop your brow from furrowing. Your fingers, digging into the couch cushion.  
  
Miles notices this.  
  
“I’m not going to let anything hurt you, you know,” he says. “I promise. I just think we could both use a night out of the house. It’ll be good for you. Trust me.”  
  
He offers you a hand. 

  
You scan his face. You’re not sure what you expect to find in his expression - a lie? a punchline? a sinister double meaning? - because all you see is honesty.  
  
“Alright,” you say eventually, taking his hand. He pulls you up off the couch. “I trust you.”  
  
Miles squeezes your hand before he lets go.  
  
  
**  
  
  
The cobbled roads of Bergamo are awash in a soft warmth. The two of you snake through backstreets, heading down a route you aren’t familiar with. You keep asking Miles if you’re there yet, which annoys him but makes him laugh at the same time.  
  
You’re a little suspicious. You also can’t take your eyes off him.  
  
“Can you at least tell me what we’re doing?” you try again. 

“Nope,” he replies, clearly trying not to smile. “It’s a surprise.”  
  
“You’re so annoying,” you tell him.  
  
He says he knows.  
  
  
You’re driving down a particularly pretty street when he starts snickering at nothing. You look at him to see him biting his bottom lip but unable to stop himself grinning.

“Miles?” you repeat, your smile mirroring his. “What are we doing right now?”  
  
“Jesus, Waylon, I said you’ll _see_!”  
  
You roll your eyes but you’re quiet for the remaining few minutes of the drive.  
  
Miles pulls the car into a little area where the road loops into a cul-de-sac. It’s secluded. The streetlights shine the whole area in an orange glow. In front of the car, a mere railing separates you from a steep drop that falls away into the rest of Bergamo. The sky is an expanse of spilled ink.  
  
“Miles,” you breathe, “this is _beautiful_.”  
  
He switches off the ignition and turns to you. Clears his throat. “I’ve been coming here a lot, actually. It’s private. Never seen another person. And, uh… Listen, I still feel like shit for what happened back in Ravello. For putting us in such a fucked up situation with the swarm and Murkoff and all that. I kinda pushed you to do something you weren’t comfortable doing, and I know it was upsetting to—”  
  
You interrupt, “Miles.”   
  
He shuts his mouth.  
  
“You don’t have to keep bringing that up. I’ve told you I’m fine with it. I don’t feel unsafe with you at all.”  
  
“I feel like I need to apologise more.”  
  
“You don’t _need_ to do anything.”  
  
He exhales.  
  
Then, eyes sparkling, he says, “Get out of the car.”  
  
  
You do, and he opens the door on his side and climbs out as well. The night is far brisker than you had expected and you draw your arms tightly around yourself. Watching Miles bend over back into the car to fiddle around inside for whatever reason.  
  
“What are you up to in there?” you ask, teeth chattering a little.  
  
His head pops back up into view. “Uhh,” he says. “I’m…thinking this was a really lame idea, is what I’m up to. Maybe we should’ve stayed home and listened to ‘Kick’.”  
  
“No, Miles, not again. What’s a lame idea? Coming here?”  
  
“Fuck no, coming here was a fucking great idea.” He rubs the back of his neck. He isn’t looking at you. He has his lips pressed together in a weird, bashful smile, his hair ruffled by the soft breeze. A small thrill goes through you.  
  
You try to guess what he’ll say next.  
  
“Okay,” he says finally. “So, when I first got my license I used to drive my friends off into the middle of buttfuck nowhere and we’d turn the radio up the loudest it could go and just dance outside the car for a little bit, and I don’t _know_ Waylon, I thought maybe I could do that with you? Might be good to just to loosen up a little bit, especially with how you were feeling at the start of the week. But I’m realising now that this is actually kind of fucking lame. Do you want to just go back home? Let’s go back home.”  
  
You blink. Hadn’t expected that.  
  
He finally looks back to you. He seems surprised by what he sees. “The fuck you looking at me like that for?”  
  
You’re smiling so hard your face could crack. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”  
  
“I _know_ it’s lame but— wait. Really?”  
  
You say yes. He double checks. You say yes again. He triple checks. You decide to escalate the situation.  
  
“Why, Mister Upshur,” you say, adopting a mannerism that can only be described as coquettish. “It’s such a splendid night, and yet I am so _cold_. If only there was a way we could warm up together! A dance, perhaps?”  
  
“What the fuck, Waylon?”  
  
You revert back to yourself comically fast. “Miles, turn the radio on before I change my mind and go home.”  
  
“ _Never_ do that voice again.”  
  
“Miles!”  
  
He scoffs, but his face has broken out into the biggest grin you’ve ever seen on him and the street lamps are glowing so bright that you know immediately how happy you’ve made him by saying yes. You start to giggle to yourself as he leans back inside the car and turns the radio on, and even when the volume is acceptable and he’s popped back up, you’re _still_ going. He shakes his head in your direction, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.  
  
“What station is this?” you ask him as he comes to stand closer to you.  
  
He yanks the door open on your side. You can hear the music even better now. A song with a plucky bass line slowly drawing to its close.  
  
“Man, I have _no_ idea. It’s the only station I get in this piece of shit car that isn’t in Italian. Some indie rock channel? It’s either this or fuckin’ opera music.”  
  
You aren’t really sure how it began or even how you got the confidence to do it in the first place, but you dance. Kind of. You do your best impression of what you think dancing should look like in this situation, meaning you close your eyes and move your shoulders up and down as you sway on the spot. You don’t know this song. You feel like you don’t need to. You focus on the way the wind nips at your skin through your sweater, the clean smell of the air, the cobbles underfoot. How it feels to move only because you want to.  


Miles snorts from somewhere to your right. “Waylon, you dance like a dad.”  
  
You flip him off.  
  
The song finishes after a moment and the next one picks up.  
  
“Oh!” You hear Miles say, and when you open your eyes he’s bopping his head appreciatively. “I actually know this song!”  
  
He looks delighted. He’s attempting to sing along with it - you _think_ \- but either can’t hit the notes properly or is just utterly fucking up the lyrics. He doesn’t sound very good and yet it might be the best thing you’ve heard in years.  
  
“You sure you know this one?” you tease.  
  
It’s his turn to flip you off. Still dancing, he gripes, “I know _most_ of it, I swear.”  
  
He doesn’t appear to be trying very hard but as you watch him move you decide that you could watch him for hours. He’s better at this than you, for sure. He looks beautiful when he’s happy. That thrill that went through you earlier comes back.  
  
“Christ,” he exclaims, and steps close enough to press into your side. “It’s fucking cold.”  
  
He locks eyes with you then. Eyebrows jerking up as if surprised by your sudden closeness, even though he was the one to initiate it. You smile at him. Let him know it’s fine. You’re not scared of him being close to you right now. You don’t feel scared of anything.  
  
He clears his throat and offers you both hands. Slowly. His eyes on yours, asking you if you trust him enough for this.  
  
“Mister Park,” he says, his voice suave and kind of British. “May I have this dance?”  
  
You put your hands in his. His skin sparks against yours. “I thought you’d never ask.”  
  
You are no stranger to dancing with a partner, but you are definitely a stranger to dancing in the empty streets of Bergamo to an upbeat song playing from a rental car. You’re a stranger to dancing with Miles Upshur. You feel tingly all over and wonder whether it’s the swarm buzzing against your fingers or if it’s just you.  
  
Neither of you seem to know what style of dancing to do so you end up swinging each other’s arms from side to side, both of you clearly trying very hard to not laugh. You notice that the streetlight directly above you is starting to glow pink.  
  
“Is that you doing that?” you ask over Miles mumbling the lyrics, knowing the answer already.  
  
He glances up and nods. His cheeks appear flushed. Pink, like the light.  
  
“It’s very cool,” you say. An understatement.  
  
‘ _Give ‘em hell, give ‘em teeth, like you taught me.  
Tireless mess, seeking thrills, getting bitey…’  
  
_“What’s this song about?” you ask him.  
  
“Fighting back,” he tells you. “Doing things your way.”  
  
You like that.  
  
He likes it too.  
  
He rubs a thumb over your palm. Your skin tingles.

Less than a minute later and Miles informs (or warns) you that this is the part of the song he knows every lyric to. You nod, like a supportive parent listening to their kid speak absolute gibberish, and say of course it is and you’re very much looking forward to it.  
  
Everything seems to happen in the same second.  
  
He almost scares the shit out of you by dropping your hands to throw a vicious punch into the air, utterly _shouting_ along to the song, you scuttling backwards like a skittish animal.  
  
“Miles!” you cry out, but the sight of him just going apeshit is enough to both calm you down and set you off into a laughing fit. He reaches out and draws you back to him with one arm, the other still passionately pounding the shit out of the air. He looks back to your face, gauging your reaction.  
  
“Do you want to spin?” he asks you, taking a quick break from screaming lyrics.  
  
You say yes, because you would indeed quite like to be twirled by a handsome man like Miles.  
  
You must have misunderstood what he meant by “spin” because when he picks you up by the waist and literally _swings your entire body_ in a wide circle you are more than a little startled, making this known by shrieking his name out loud. He sets you back down on the ground - not elegantly - and sings, right at you, “ _Swing, sucker, swing, finish sobbing!_ ”  
  
You stumble for a second before righting yourself.  
  
“Miles!” you yelp. “That’s not a spin! You told me you were going to spin me!”  
  
“I did spin you. I spun you in a circle.”  
  
“You’re supposed to just twirl me on the spot, not literally swing me like a discus. You could have killed me!”  
  
“Oh, sorry _Madonna._ Why don’t you lead the dance then if you know so much?”  
  
You are more than up to the challenge. You grab both of his hands in yours and move them to an acceptable position - his on your shoulder, yours on his waist. Nudge his foot with yours until he takes a step back and you step forward. Keep nudging him to move the right way until he picks up on it, which only takes a few tries.  
  
“Way, is this a waltz? Are we waltzing right now?”  
  
This is _not_ a waltzing song but this _is_ a waltzing moment. Forward, side, close, back, side, one two three one two three….  
  
He’s humming as you half-pull, half-sweep him in a wide circle next to the car. Nose crinkled. Happy.  
  
You feel like you’re flying. You aren’t sure how long you’ve been gazing at one another.  
  
You halt the circling and curl one of your arms around him, stepping forward to urge him into a backwards dip. He lets out a short bark of a laugh but follows through with the action smoothly, neither of you ending up on the ground. One of your hands still holds his. His body is a comfortable weight.  
  
He’s staring up at you. In this light his eyelashes cast fluttering shadows across his cheekbones. You become very aware of the hand on your shoulder, his weight on your arm, the increasing tingle in your chest.  
  
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. You swallow.  
  
He presses upwards and kisses you.  
  
You go stiff as a board. His lips have been on yours for less than a second before he jerks away. His hands fly to his mouth. Something clicks in your head and you may finally understand what you realised the night you slept on the couch together.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” he says, his hands curling in front of him. “Waylon, holy _shit._ I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that, I’m so—”  
  
You take one step forward, loop your arm around his waist, and pull him back into you. His voice catches.  
  
You kiss Miles Upshur and the whole world explodes.  


The lamp high above you crackles wildly. Your eyes flutter shut. You hold him to your body and his hands cup your face, his attempt at an explanation fizzing out and dying in your mouth. You lean into his touch, open your mouth, shudder at the feel of his lips. He’s soft, too soft at first, kissing you as if from a distance, and you pull him closer, and then closer still, to tell him that that isn’t what you want, you don’t need him to treat you like you’re made of glass.  
  
And then he doesn’t. Something surges from him like a wave and suddenly he’s grabbing fistfuls of your sweater and your hands are knotting in his hair and the music is deafening and he’s kissing you with so much power it’s an act of God. He tugs at you, walking you forward and himself backward, never breaking apart, until you have him pressed against the side of the car. Your arm is still circled around his body and you push yourself into him. He mumbles something into your lips, a sound deep in his chest that gets lost to the sounds of the radio and the fierce humming of the streetlights above.  
  
Your lips and chest are aflame. Your body is light, your heart even lighter. Warmth wraps around you like feathered wings. You’re spinning in and out of time, weightless.  
  
You feel Miles’ lips start to leave yours. You both exhale.  
  
“I feel like I’m flying,” he murmurs as he draws away, as if speaking your mind.  
  
Your eyes open. You look up at him and you’re already bored of not kissing him.  
  
Huh. That’s odd. You could have sworn he wasn’t _that_ much taller than you.  
  
Your jaw drops.  
  
“Miles,” you say.  
  
“Waylon,” Miles says back, and huffs. “Holy fuck. I’m floating right now.”  
  
“Yeah,” you say, tightly. “Miles, you’re floating.”  
  
He blinks at you, then looks down at his feet. He takes a few moments to register that they are - and, therefore, _he_ is - hovering several inches above the ground. He blinks again.  
  
“What the _fuck?!_ ” he yells.  
  
You reach up and pull him back down to earth by his shoulders. His boots _thunk!_ against the cobblestones. “Get down from there!”  
  
“What the fuck?” He says again, swaying a bit, unsteady on his feet.  
  
Then he looks at you like he’s offended. “Did you just say ‘get down from there’?”   
  
“I…” You splutter for a moment. “I didn’t want you floating away? Excuse me for worrying about you.”  
  
“‘ _Get down from there!’_ ” Miles shrieks, in a rude and inaccurate imitation.  
  
You throw your hands up.  
  
“Screw you, Miles,” you say. “Ungrateful bitch.”  
  
He laughs. Laughs like this is the funniest thing that has ever happened to him, like his life depends on it. You fold your arms for a moment but it isn’t long before you’re joining in, throwing your head back, clutching at one of Miles’ arms to keep yourself up, tears streaming from your eyes. He pulls you into his side where you bury your face in his neck. You think you’re high. It’s a dream, he’s a dream. You’re kissing his skin, holding him firmly to earth, his throat vibrating under your lips because he can’t seem to stop himself laughing.  
  
You’re happy, you’re so fucking happy.  
  
There’s a sudden _bang!_ from high above you as somebody flings the window to their apartment open and barks down at you, “Merda Santa _, sta’ zitto! Sono le tre del mattino!_ Vaffanculo _!”  
_  
Miles yells back, “Oh fuck, sorry ma’am! - I mean, _lo siento señorita—_ ”  
  
“Miles, that’s Spanish!”  
  
“—is it? Huh. _Uhh, scusa signora!_ ” He adopts the worst impression at an Italian accent, _“_ We won’t’a do it again!”  
  
Miles dives through the open car door before you can accuse him of being racist and switches off the radio, dragging you in after him. You slam the door. Let out a deep breath, shaking your head. Still giggling like you’re drunk. You press your forehead to the dashboard. Your shoulders are shaking. You can hear Miles snickering next to you.  
  
What the _hell_ just happened?  
  
When you turn to look at him he’s already staring. A smile creeps across his face. Your heart feels like sparks are exploding out of it. For the first time in a long time, your head is here and now. Nowhere dark, nowhere terrifying, nowhere else. And God, do you hope this lasts.  
  
You both lean in to meet one another and time stops all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Been dreamin' for a minute.  
> Just a minute or two.  
> With total devotion,  
> Weightless with you.  
> We seem to be spinning  
> In and out of time.  
> We have followed an ocean  
> Fading over our light.'
> 
> \- Boo Seeka, Does This Last
> 
> ^ Listen to this song if u wanna feel like u have ur head in ur love's lap and they’re running their fingers through ur hair. 
> 
> The song I wrote them boogying to is "Buttercup" by Hippo Campus. An absolute jam. You can absolutely guess which part of the song Miles goes ham to.
> 
> HEY WOW THE SLOW BURN FINALLY GOT SOMEWHERE!!!!!!!!!!! I'm honeslty nervous abt this chapter writing kissing is hard but I hope u all enjoyed it!!!!!!! I love u all!!!


	13. The lights that fade.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your past is never far behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh? it's gay? 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: SLIGHT SLIGHT nsfw, references to in-game trauma, slight mentions of in-game sexual assault

The streets pass you in a blur of gold.  
  
Miles is driving fast, faster than he should be, but you don’t think you care. You’re soaring, and if the seatbelt wasn’t keeping you firmly in place you believe your body would be among the stars by now.  
  
He pulls in out the front of your house after far too long.   
  
You look at Miles. He looks at you.   
  
“Hey,” he says.   
  
“Hi,” you say back.

  
  
You both lean into one another, your hand flying to his jaw and his hand to your upper arm as your mouths meet somewhere in the middle. And you almost feel nervous, almost wonder if you’re doing something wrong, but his mouth is so soft, so wonderful, a thumb rubbing circles on your arm, that you forget how long it’s been since something like this has happened for you. Your hand moves from his jawline to the back of his head, urging him closer. He switches the engine off. 

  
  
You open his lips with yours, your fingers curling in his hair. He still moves as if he’s waiting for you to cue him on what to do.   
  
“Miles,” you murmur into his mouth, eyes still closed.   
  
“Mm?”   
  
“You don’t need to be so gentle.” 

  
  
He hums and kisses you again, a little harder now. He turns his body to you properly the best he can and cups your cheek with his other hand, the tips of his fingers freezing. You feel his tongue touch your bottom lip and open your mouth to encourage it further, an invitation that he accepts eagerly. He tilts his head a bit. Exhales with a breathy moan that causes your lower stomach to tingle in a way it hasn’t for a long time. 

**  
**You hear him click out of his seatbelt and suddenly he’s clambering over to settle himself into your lap, sliding his arms down your back, his forehead pressed to yours and your jaw tilted upward to give him better access to your lips. Your breathing quickens. His arms drape comfortably over your shoulders, his hands fisting at the back of your jacket.

  
He draws back after what could be a single second or ten minutes. He winces. 

  
  
“This is kinda cramped,” he says, grinning down at you sheepishly. “Do you maybe wanna go inside?”   
  
“Yes,” you respond right away.   
  
He chuckles and dismounts, half-falling out of the car when he opens the door. 

  
  
You follow. He offers you his hand and you take it, and he tugs you after him to the front of the house. The key is in your jacket pocket. You go to fish it out and find yourself very distracted because Miles presses up behind you and kisses the back of your neck, your hair standing on end. You wriggle away.   
  
“Tickles,” you mumble, and this makes him laugh.   
  
You get the door open. He trots in after you and when he turns back from shutting it, you grab him by the shoulders and shove him against the door and kiss him with enough passion to prompt a startled, “Oh!” from him. He recovers instantaneously, pulling your hips forward, your body stretched up against his. You break the kiss to press your lips to his jaw, his neck, his jaw again, the corner of his mouth. His skin is cool.   
  
“You’re full of surprises, Park,” he huffs. 

  
  
You tip your head to one side, rolling your eyes, and kiss him again. You hook him by the lapels of his leather jacket and pull him forwards until the back of your knees hit the the side of the couch. You’ve misjudged the distance, hit the couch a little too hard a little too suddenly, and find yourself falling over the side with a yelp.   
  
Miles looks down at you with a cartoonish expression of surprise.   
  
“Are you okay?” he asks, like you’ve fallen into a pit of spikes and not a very soft lounge.   
  
You start laughing and hold out your hands to him. He takes them. Uses them to pull himself forward, leaning over you, kissing you, your fingers combing through his hair. A shiver runs through your body and the tingling in your stomach turns into a more urgent throb. His hands drop yours and he touches a palm to your chest, slides it down your belly, over your hipbone. 

  
  
You pause. 

  
  
He kisses your throat and his lips scorch your skin. You blink your eyes open. He trails his hand across your hips and touches his palm to the inside of your thigh, pulling back to the point he’s standing over you behind the side of the couch, his hand still on your leg.   
  
Your brain catches up to your body. You finally realise what you’re doing, that you’re alone and anything could happen to you right now.   
  
He runs his hand lower, caressing your inner thigh, and this position feels too vulnerable, too familiar, and the smile he gives you doesn’t belong to Miles anymore. Your lips part. The room shifts, and when you blink the couch beneath you is a wooden table and the man above you wants you dead.  
  
You whimper somewhere in your throat.  
  
The looming man pauses, cocks his head to one side. Your breath comes out shaky, your eyes stretched wider.   
  
“Are you okay?” he asks.   
  
“Stop doing that,” you bite out. “Stop looking at me like that.”   
  
His face is Miles’ again. Gluskin is gone. 

  
  
Your stomach twists and you sit up, swinging your legs off from where they drape over the side, wriggling down to the other end of the couch. Miles doesn’t follow you, thankfully. You stare straight ahead with hunched shoulders.   
  
“Are you okay?” he repeats.   
  
“I don’t like you staring down at me like that,” you say. Your voice is sharp. “I dont— I want to stop.”  
  
Your hair is standing on end. You don’t look at him. Muscles tense, you wait for him to deny this, to ignore your concerns, to demand you keep going. He could grab you by your throat, try force you to his will like Gluskin did. You don’t know if you could fight him off.   
  
But Miles says, “Okay.”   
  
You blink, surprised, and turn to him. He’s still at the other end of the couch behind the armrest. His expression, when you inspect it further, holds nothing but concern. Nothing annoyed, angry, sinister. You keep your eyes on his face. He looks back at you, evenly. Your breathing starts to slow down. Your body remains tense, but your hands slowly uncurl from their fists, fingers trembling. 

  
  
You speak up. 

  
  
“Thank you,” you say.   
  
He replies, “You don’t need to thank me for this.”  
  
You wrap your arms around your stomach and look away.   
  
“I can go out, if you want,” he continues. “Or into a different room. You can just let me know when you’re—”  
  
“It’s okay. You can sit,” you tell him.   
  
He sits. At the other end, looking like he’s pressed as far away from you as he can, but still with you.   
  
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.   
  
You hang your head.   
  
“You can tell me anything,” he says. “You can tell me anything at all. You know that, right?”   
  
“I just…” You gesture vaguely. “I saw him.”   
  
In your peripheral you see him go still. He inquires, “Gluskin?”   
  
The name makes you flinch but you nod.  
  
“It was fine at first,” you tell him. “I was enjoying it. _Really_ enjoying it. I don’t know what happened.”   
  
He says nothing.   
  
“I’m sorry. I wish I wasn’t like this. I wish I was normal. You must be so annoyed at me.”   
  
“Hey,” Miles murmurs, and moves as if to come closer but stops himself halfway to you.   
  
You give him the all clear with an, “It’s alright,” and now he’s right next to you, his shoulder bumping yours.   
  
“I’m not annoyed at you,” he says. “Never annoyed at you. I hit a boundary and you let me know, that’s all. I’d be a pretty shit guy to be mad at you for that.”   
  
You’re unsure if he’s just being nice or if he means it.   
  
He continues, “I never wanna do anything that makes you feel unsafe. If I overstep or come on too strong, let me know. I’m a bit of a fuckwit but I’ll always listen to you.”   
  
You think he means it.   
  
“Thanks, Miles,” you say. You pause before adding, “I liked all of the other stuff, though. I _really_ liked kissing you. I just… I just don’t feel okay with anything else. I don’t think I can do s-…..sex.”

  
  
You can hardly even say the word. You feel like a child.

  
  
“That’s okay,” he says, so reassuring you could cry with relief. He knocks your shoulder with his. “I wasn’t expecting that anyway. For the record, I really liked kissing you as well. Its all I’ve been thinking about forever and I was _not_ disappointed. You know what you’re doing.”   
  
You’re taken aback.  
  
“I— are you serious? You’ve thought about— Thank you?”   
  
He tilts his head. Smiles gently.   
  
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me?” you check. “Can you promise me that you aren’t mad?”   
  
“Not mad at all, I promise. I don’t care if we never have sex. It’s not gonna be good unless you’re into it.” He looks at you more closely. “Why are you even asking me that? Are _you_ alright?”   
  
You sigh. “Not really.”   
  
“Talk to me.”   
  
“I just want to be able to handle things like normal, you know? I want to feel comfortable with the idea of being with someone in that way. I want my body to be better friends with my brain. But shit, I don’t think I’ve felt turned on in a whole year until tonight.” You pause, unsure if you’re being too open. Miles doesn’t look uncomfortable so you go on, “I _want_ to be. The concept of it doesn’t terrify me like it used to… I guess it’s different in practice. Does that make sense?”   
  
“Yeah,” he says, “of course. That makes perfect sense to me.”   
  
You, again, find yourself feeling very grateful that Miles exists.   
  
“That place fucked us up real bad, y’know?” he says. “Mount Massive, that is. I don’t expect either of us to have a handle on living just yet.”   
  
“But _you_ seem fine.”   
  
“Ha! God no. I’m just a good actor.”   
  
“Oh,” you say.   
  
You're both quiet for a little bit.   
  
“Okay, then how are you doing, really?” You turn your body to him more. Pull your legs onto the couch, sit cross-legged in front of him. “No hiding things from me.”   
  
Miles’ mouths sets in a tight line.   
  
“More or less the same,” he says. “Sometimes I feel so _normal,_ like I’m living the American Dream of owning a working heart and a body that isn’t slowly dying, but then I wake up and my pillow is just _covered_ in blood and it’s like ‘Oh. That’s still happening, huh?’ So… I’m very much still on my way out.”   


“What?!” Your eyes widen. “How often?! How have I not known about this?”   
  
He grits his teeth and looks away. “Dunno. Haven’t been counting. I always get a handle on it before you wake up.”   
  
“Miles, that’s _bad_. That’s really bad.”   
  
“You think?” he huffs. Then he frowns. “Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t act like a dick right now. You’re probably the only person who cares. Y’know, despite all the shit going wrong with me physically I’ve been feeling good. Not as scared of it anymore.”   
  
“That’s so good!” you say, nudging him. “I’m happy to hear that, at least.” 

  
He grins at you, toothily, lopsidedly, an expression that makes you want to hold him by the cheeks and kiss him sweetly.   
  
“Thank you,” he says. “It sure feels nice having something to stick around for.”   
  
“Oh? And what would that be—”   
  
You cut yourself off.  
  
“Wait, you mean _me?_ ”

  
Miles laughs.  
  
“God, you’re cute when you’re stupid. Yes Waylon, I mean you.”   
  
You open and close your mouth like a fish.   
  
“That’s such a nice thing to say?”   
  
He nods. “I guess it is. Huh. Won’t be doing _that_ again.”   
  
  
You snort.   
  
Then you frown.   
  
“Why don’t you tell me about these things?” you ask.   
  
He doesn’t meet your eyes.   
  
“I think you know the answer to that,” he mutters.   
  
You do.   
  
You say, “Well, I want you to tell me when things aren’t going so great for you, okay? I still don’t know how I’d help but… I’d feel better if you told me. And I think you’d feel better, too.”   
  
His eyes are back on yours and they don’t falter.   
  
“Okay,” he says. “I will. I appreciate that.”   
  
  
He presses his lips together. 

  
  
“I’m having a physical check with the bureau next week,” he tells you. “D’you wanna come? I haven’t had one in a while and I’m kinda freaking out about it a little bit. Be nice to have you there.”   
  
You try not to look too taken aback.   
  
“Oh,” you say. “Yes, of course I’ll come with you. Um, will I need to _do_ anything?”   
  
“No, Way, you won’t need to do anything. I mean… You can stand outside the room and shout ‘Go Miles!’ if you’d like. Or, I dunno, hold my hand like a supportive dad while I tell them all my problems.”   
  
You slip your hand into his at this. His voice catches and you pretend you don’t notice.   
  
“They really aren’t that exciting,” Miles continues. “They’ll just be checking how the Walrider’s doing, how my body is holding up, all that shit.”   
  
You squeeze his hand. “Sounds great. I’m looking forward to it.”   
  
“Looking forward to hearing more about how fucked I am? Damn, you’re a bit of a freak.”   
  
  
You give him the most withering stare you can manage.  
  
  
“Fuck Gluskin, by the way,” he adds out of nowhere.   
  
“Yes,” you agree. “Fuck him. Fucking cunt piece of shit. Glad he’s dead.”   
  
“Oh my _God_ ,” Miles says, laughing. “Yes! Let it out.”   
  
  
“Wow, I’m sorry. I don’t use that word often, I promise. That felt weird.” You gnaw your bottom lip. “Hm. Can I tell you something?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“I— Oh no, I shouldn’t tell you this. You’re going to think I’m a sadistic freak.”   
  
“Will I? _Please_ tell me then.”   
  
“Fine. It… it took a lot for me not to laugh at his corpse. I saw him die and my body reacted as if it was the funniest thing ever. That’s kind of messed up, isn’t it? To see someone impaled on a pipe and have your gut reaction be to laugh? I never knew I had that in me. It scares me to know I’m capable of that.”   
  
His eyes widen.   
  
“Is it bad to say I’m really attracted to you right now?”   
  
You splutter, “WHAT?! Miles, what the—”

  
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I mean, I’m not, but no that isn’t an abnormal reaction. You’re fine. You’re still a little messed in the head, yeah, but we both are. I would’ve laughed at his corpse too if I was given the chance.”   
  
“Good,” you say.   
  
  
A beat.  
  
  
“Fucking hate that fucking piece of shit,” you say. “He’s absolute scum. Lower than scum.”   
  
Miles barks a laugh and claps his hands together. “Yeah! He is!”   
  
This feels good. You wonder if Dotti would let you use atrocious language in your next session.   
  
  
“You should scream it,” Miles says, grinning. “Sometimes that makes me feel better.”  
  
“Miles, it’s 2am!”   
  
“So? Gluskin’s not gonna hear you in hell. C’mon, do it and then it’s bedtime.”   
  
“I would wake up everyone in the neighbourhood.”   
  
He sighs. “Fuck. I guess you’re right.”  
  
  
Neither of you say anything for a bit.   
  
  
Then you clear your throat and scream, “GLUSKIN’S A PIECE OF SHIT AND I’M GLAD HE'S DEAD!” so loudly that Miles leaps off the couch and the lamp next to you switches on and buzzes like crazy. You haven’t seen _that_ happen before.  
  
Screaming felt good. You fold your arms in satisfaction. He stares from you to the lamp, which flicks off, then back to you. He’s gaping open-mouthed.   
  
“Are you happy now?” you ask, smugly.   
  
He responds, “It’s shit like this that made me wanna kiss you.”   
  
  
Your heart soars and you’re suddenly feeling so much better.  
  
He stretches, yawns.   
  
“It _is_ 2am,” he confirms. “Are you alright to go to sleep?”   
  
“Yes,” you say. “I’ll be fine, thank you.” Awkwardly, you add, “I think I’d like to sleep by myself, though.”   
  
“Of course!” he says. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”   
  
  
You can’t believe you never considered the reason you liked being around him so much was because you’ve definitely had a crush on him, and you don’t even know for how long. You curse your own obliviousness.   
  
  
You get up off the couch, roll your shoulders back, feel the tension leave your muscles. You’re standing before Miles now.   
  
  
He asks, “Will it be okay for me to kiss you goodnight?”   
  
You put a hand on the back of his head and kiss him in response. His lips turn up into a smile underneath yours, his arms around your waist.   
  
You break the kiss.   
  
“That’d be fine,” you tell him.   
  
  
He smiles at you.   
  
  
“Goodnight,” he says.   
  
“Goodnight,” you say back.   
  
  
You head to your separate rooms. You touch your fingertips to your lips and smile, hugely, privately, so big your cheeks hurt. Your heart is beating so fast you can’t sleep but it’s in the best possible way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Something tells me you know why I lie,  
> But nothing fades like the light.
> 
> Time goes by, I wanna rise up.  
> And I know why things change.  
> And I know why I stay the same.' 
> 
> \- Orville Peck, Nothing Fades Like The Light
> 
> *banging hands on table* MILES SOFT MILES SOFT MILES SOFT MILES


End file.
